Beautiful


Why do I think you’re beautiful?
It’s not your silky, satin dresses,
Or your curly curtain tresses,
Or the glow that gently blesses
Whichever path you tread.

Why do I think you’re beautiful?
It’s not your sultry, smiling lips,
Or your dainty fingertips,
Or your gentle nose that dips
As you bow your rosy head.

Why do I think you’re beautiful?
It’s not the clasps and clips galore,
Or your chuckling cheeks I adore,
Or your eyes that come before
Every little rhyme I make.

Why do I think you’re beautiful?
It’s not your spectral, sober face,
Or your skin as smooth as lace,
Or the callous, courteous grace
You flaunt with each step you take.

Why do I think you’re beautiful?
It’s not your soothing summer’s shine,
Or your voice, like sparkling wine,
Or your sweet, warm hand in mine
That’s driving me insane.

Why do I think you’re beautiful?
It’s not your bouts of stunning wit,
Or the frequent childish fit,
Or the thoughts of you that flit
Like radiant, rippling rain.

No.

Then why do I think you’re beautiful?
Because, my dear, you’re beautiful
And that’s all there is to it.