What is it…?

What is it that compares with you, my dear?
Where bides, where would, what could, it be?
The sparkling stars in glory do appear,
Yet darksome seem beside the eyes of thee.
The sun throws out his splendid shafts of might—
Wood javelins beside thy face so bright.
The mountains, they are strong and sure and true,
But crumblers next the certain mind of you.
Rivers flowing, and surges high of tide
Bestow their wonders on the eye and ear,
But what are these against your laughing pride
That gladly leads light Spring through all the year?
Oh, naught there is so good and grand and fair
As you, my dear, superior everywhere!

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