Classic Poem

A YEAR or more ago I met
A maid whose eyes were blue,
And when I see her big blue eyes
I always think of you.

Pretty fair brown hair she has
In curls that fringe and flow;
It would, if I'd a lock of it,
Remind me of you so.

Her hands are small and white and soft,
And kind in granting prayers,
And on her gemmed and gentle hands
Your size of glove she wears.

Her dainty little feet are shod
With dainty little shoes;
Like yours they trample underfoot
Men's egotistic views.

She is a little fairy from
A broken mould of fate;
If we should lose you all the world
Has not her duplicate.

Of course I got her photograph,
And cheaper than a song;
A friend of mine had one of you—
I robbed him—was I wrong?

And now you guess the riddle, dear,
You know you're both the same,
And I admire you twice as much
As any other flame.