 | Poetical Trifles |  |
37
L'AMOUR TIMIDE.
TO ---------.
If in that breast, so good, so pure,
Compassion ever lov'd to dwell,
Pity the sorrows I endure,
The cause—I must not—dare not tell.
Compassion ever lov'd to dwell,
Pity the sorrows I endure,
The cause—I must not—dare not tell.
The grief that on my quiet preys—
That rends my heart—that checks my tongue—
I fear will last me all my days,
But feel it will not last me long.
That rends my heart—that checks my tongue—
I fear will last me all my days,
But feel it will not last me long.
| Poetical Trifles | |