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.