Joseph Skipsey

Site Is Not Fashioned

SHE is not fashioned to command,
     Nor once, for grace, in her is shown,
A form that peers the lily-wand—
     An air the lily’s self might own;
Not such her vaunt, tho’ such enchant,
     Nay, make with joy the reason reel,
’Tis hers to bear a boon more rare,—
     A heart another’s woe to feel.
 
Nor hers the hair that beams afar
     Like streams of molten gold—an eye—
That twinkles like the little star
     Attends the virgin moon on high;
Not such her vaunt, yet joy will haunt
     Whoe’er her gentle smile has viewed;
That smile would light the gloom would blight
     A heart with lion-nerve endued.
 
Not hers the golden tones that break
     Like music from the lips, the rare—
The dancing dimple on the cheek
     Accorded to the fabled fair;
Not such her vaunt—nay, pride might taunt
     Her with a lack of charms—yet oh!
She’s to the faint and weak a saint
     Ordained to bless this world below.
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