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.