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.