Somebody

She is plain of face, she hath little grace,
They say when they speak of me,
’Tis little I care, I am more than fair
In the eyes of somebody.

She is cold, they say, as a winter’s day,
It mattereth not to me,
For the glow and heat of my true heart’s beat
Is known unto somebody.

She holdeth in hand neither gold or land--
Ah, the dull eyes cannot see
How rich and great is my broad estate
In the heart of somebody.