In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Just steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can,
There she was, not looking all reddish nor pale,
But she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.