When I bought you for a song, Years ago—Lord knows how long!— I was struck—I may be wrong— By your features, And—a something in your air That I couldn't quite compare To my other plain or fair Fellow creatures. In your simple, oval frame You were not well known to fame, But to me—'twas all the same— Whoe'er drew you; For your face I can't forget, Though I oftentimes regret That, somehow, I never yet Saw quite through you. Yet each morning, when I rise, I go first to greet your eyes; And, in turn, YOU scrutinize My presentment. And when shades of evening fall, As you hang upon my wall, You're the last thing I recall With contentment. It is weakness, yet I know That I never turned to go Anywhere, for weal or woe, But I lingered For one parting, thrilling flash From your eyes, to give that dash To the curl of my mustache, That I fingered. If to some you may seem plain, And when people glance again Where you hang, their lips refrain. From confession; Yet they turn in stealth aside, And I note, they try to hide How much they are satisfied In expression. Other faces I have seen; Other forms have come between; Other things I have, I ween, Done and dared for! But OUR ties they cannot sever, And, though I should say it never, You're the only one I ever Really cared for! And you'll still be hanging there When we're both the worse for wear, And the silver's on my hair And off your backing; Yet my faith shall never pass In my dear old shaving-glass, Till my face and yours, alas! Both are lacking!
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