Disillusioned

I painted her a gushing thing,
With years about a score;
I little thought to find they were
At least a dozen more;
My fancy gave her eyes of blue,
A curly auburn head:
I came to find the blue a green,
The auburn turned to red.

I painted her a lip and cheek
In colour like the rose;
I little thought the selfsame hue
Extended to her nose!
I dreamed of rounded features—
A smile of ready glee—
But it was not fat I wanted,
Nor a grin I hoped to see!

She boxed my ears this morning—
They tingled very much—
I own that I could wish her
A somewhat lighter touch;
And if you ask me how
Her charms might be improved,
I would not have them added to,
But just a few removed!

She has the bear’s ethereal grace,
The bland hyena’s laugh,
The footstep of the elephant,
The neck of a giraffe;
I love her still—believe it—
Though my heart its passion hides;
“She’s all my fancy painted her,’
But oh! how much besides!