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Wit and Humor of America, The Vol 03

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<h2>MY SWEETHEART</h2> <h3>BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Her height? Perhaps you'd deem her tall— To be exact, just five feet seven. Her arching feet are not too small; Her gleaming eyes are bits of heaven. Slim are her hands, yet not too wee— I could not fancy useless fingers, Her hands are all that hands should be, And own a touch whose memory lingers. </div> <div class="stanza"> The hue that lights her oval cheeks Recalls the pink that tints a cherry; Upon her chin a dimple speaks, A disposition blithe and merry. Her laughter ripples like a brook; Its sound a heart of stone would soften. Though sweetness shines in every look, Her laugh is never loud, nor often. </div> <div class="stanza"> Though golden locks have won renown With bards, I never heed their raving; The girl I love hath locks of brown, Not tightly curled, but gently waving. Her mouth?—Perhaps you'd term it large— Is firmly molded, full and curving; Her quiet lips are Cupid's charge, But in the cause of truth unswerving. </div> <div class="stanza"> Though little of her neck is seen, That little is both smooth and sightly; And fair as marble is its sheen Above her bodice gleaming whitely. Her nose is just the proper size, Without a trace of upward turning. Her shell-like ears are wee and wise, The tongue of scandal ever spurning. </div> <div class="stanza"> In mirth and woe her voice is low, Her calm demeanor never fluttered; Her every accent seems to go Straight to one's heart as soon as uttered. She ne'er coquets as others do; Her tender heart would never let her. Where does she dwell? I would I knew; As yet, alas! I've never met her. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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