Frances Brooke

“Her mouth, which a smile,Devoid of all guile,  Half opens to view,Is the bud of the roseIn the morning that blows,  Impearl’d with the dew.{{pb}}More fragrant her breathThan the flow’r-scented heath  At the dawning of day;The hawthorn in bloom,The lily’s perfume,  Or the blossoms of may.”