She is neither pink nor pale,
        And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
        And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
        In the sun `tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
        Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can, 
        And her ways to my ways resign; 
But she was not made for any man, 
        And she never will be all mine.