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 colored 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.