You pretty face, upon my wall,
Enshrined in glass and oak and gold,
Most charming deaf-mute--and withal
My confidante--whate'er befall,
My trust in you will rest untold,
You pretty face!
What do they call you? Is it "Spring"?
Or "Blossoms"? or "The Coming Race"?--
It matters not in any case,
Your name may be just anything
For all I care, you pretty face.
You bring me back old scenes anew,
You've something of my lady's grace,
Of her sweet features just a trace,
And so I have re-christened you--
I won't say what--you pretty face!
I have no portrait to recall
The sweetest of all maids to me,
Nor have I need of one at all,
Yet, seeing you upon my wall,
By pleasing "make-believe" I see
Her pretty face!
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