There's a sparkle in her eye

That no millionnaire can buy.

If they think so, let them try—

She's divine.

There's a blush upon her cheek

Like the peach-tree's blossom, eke,

Like red willows by the creek,

Or like wine.

She has roses in her hair.

It was I who put them there.

Really, did I ever dare—

Is she mine?

Or is it all a dream,—

Idle poet's empty theme

Put in words that make it seem

Superfine?

No; for see upon her hand

There's a little golden band,—

Filigree work, understand,

Like a vine;

And a perfect solitaire

Fits upon it. The affair

Cost two hundred. I don't care!

She is mine.