She walks in beau­ty, like the night
Of cloud­less climes and star­ry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mel­low’d to that ten­der light
Which heav­en to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the name­less grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or soft­ly light­ens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serene­ly sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet elo­quent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in good­ness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is inno­cent!

— Lord Byron, 1813

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