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.