I love her gentle forehead,
And I love her tender hair;
I love her cool, white arms,
And her neck where it is bare.
I love the smell of her garments;
I love the touch of her hands;
I love the sky above her,
And the very ground where she stands.---
I love her doubting and anguish;
I love the love she withholds;
I love my love that loveth her
And anew her being molds.
Richard Watson Gilder