Puslapio vaizdai


O you I sing, whom towns immure, And bonds of toil hold fast and sure ;To you across whose aching sight Come woodlands bathed in April light, And dreams of pastime premature.

And you, O Sad, who still endure
Some wound that only Time can cure,—
To you, in watches of the night,—
To you I sing!

But most to you with eyelids pure,
Scarce witting yet of love or lure;—

To you, with bird-like glances bright,
Half-paused to speak, half-poised in flight;
O English Girl, divine, demure,

To YOU I sing!

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