She Is Mine.

There's a sparkle in her eye That no millionnaire can buy. If they think so, let them try— She's divine.

There's a blush upon her cheek Like the peach-tree's blossom, eke, Like red willows by the creek, Or like wine.

She has roses in her hair. It was I who put them there. Really, did I ever dare— Is she mine?

Or is it all a dream,— Idle poet's empty theme Put in words that make it seem Superfine?

No; for see upon her hand There's a little golden band,— Filigree work, understand, Like a vine;

And a perfect solitaire Fits upon it. The affair Cost two hundred. I don't care! She is mine.