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.