 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
78
A LETTER.
Sweet, I tell you that I love you still,
Have you, have you quite forgotten me?
Every separate tinkle of the rill
That the fresh sweet water-cresses fill,
Winding on its way to turn the mill,
Every flower where we used to be,
Hath a power all of me to thrill;
Have you, have you quite forgotten me?
Every separate tinkle of the rill
That the fresh sweet water-cresses fill,
Winding on its way to turn the mill,
Every flower where we used to be,
Hath a power all of me to thrill;
There was a forget-me-not I sent
In a letter—I have never heard
Whether you accepted what I meant,
Whether you the pouting eyebrows bent
In a rage, and my poor missive rent?
Answer me, this time, a single word,
'Tis the last time,—I will be content.
In a letter—I have never heard
Whether you accepted what I meant,
Whether you the pouting eyebrows bent
In a rage, and my poor missive rent?
Answer me, this time, a single word,
'Tis the last time,—I will be content.
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