With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
Oh, poverty parts good company.
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade.
To all, to each, a fair good-night, and pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.
Blud's thicker than water.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel traceA Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,Of finer form, or lovelier face!
But owned that smile, if oft observed and near,Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer.
When you call me that, smile!
Comrades, this man has a nice smile, but he's got iron teeth.
A sweet smile and a soft word have usually their desired effect.
In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile.
A smile that glow'dCelestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
I feel in every smile a chain.
And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear,For the smiling of woman shineth not here.
Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye.
With the smile that was childlike and bland.
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