She who thinks a noble heart
Better than a noble mien—
Honors virtue more than art,
Though 'tis less in fashion seen—
Whatsoe'er her fortune be,
She's the bride—the wife—for me!
She who deems that inward grace
Far surpasses outward show,
She who values less the face
Than that charm the soul can throw,—
Whatsoe'er her fortune be,
She's the bride—the wife—for me!
She who knows the heart requires
Something more than lips of dew—
That when Love's brief rose expires,
Love itself dies with it too—
Whatsoe'er her fortune be,
She's the bride—the wife—for me!
