Has anyone ever told you that you're the kind of pretty people would have written poetry about in the 1800s?
Like...
She, with tresses spun of dusky gold,
A gentle hue that doth the morning hold,
Her eyes, like skies at dawn's first tender light,
Where stars yet glimmer, soft in pale delight.
Her cheeks, with rose’s hue so finely graced,
A flush of dawn upon a winter’s face.
In her, the heavens and earth do meet,
As stars and sun in quiet twilight greet.
With love,
M