Her beauty is more than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of colored beads, Just steps leading into the sea.
There she was, not looking all reddish nor pale,
But she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.
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.