’Tis very odd that poets should suppose
There is no poetry about a nose,
When plain as is the nose upon your face,
A noseless face would lack poetic grace.
Noses have sympathy; a lover knows
Noses are always “_touched_,” when lips are kissing;
And who would care to kiss, where nose was missing?
Why, what would be the fragrance of a rose,
And where would be our mortal means of telling
Whether a vile or wholesome odour flows
Around us, if we owned no sense of smelling?
I know a nose, a nose no other knows,
’Neath starry eyes, o’er ruby lips it grows;
Beauty is in its form, and music in its blows!