By the gaily circling glass/Her Mouth, Which a Smile

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HER MOUTH, WHICH A SMILE.

Her mouth, which a smile,
Devoid of all guile,
Half open to view,
Is the bud of the rose.
In the morning that blows,
Impearl’d with the dew.

More fragrant her breath,
Than the flower-scented heath,
At the dawing of day;
The hawthorn in bloom,
The lily’s perfume,
Or the blossoms of May.