In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Just steps leading into the sea.
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.
She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.