You are the living incarnate of all that is beautiful in the facial contortions of a nagging housewife,
in the flowing crystal-line teardrop of a jilted sweetheart,
in the libertine smile of a long-faced schoolgirl,
in this fussy whims of a spinster,
in the mystic reserve of a nightclub entertainer,
and in the descriptive countenance of an ampotheric clown.
You walk with the breeze of the summer breeze;
your beauty smacks of the illusive fragrance of the roses at dawn.
Your hair is as dark as ebony,
long and silken and shines with the gloss and luster of a fading gossamer.
In short and simple language,
you are too beautiful for words, my love.