by Edna St. Vincent Millay

    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 coloured 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.