 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
XCVIII. THEY BID ME SHUN YOUR BLUSH.
They bid me shun your blush and smile;
They bid me doubt your dazzling eyes;
They tell me, love, of many a wile
You weave, your victims to surprise:
Ah! weave them still! If false they be,
'Tis sweet to be deceived by thee!
They bid me doubt your dazzling eyes;
They tell me, love, of many a wile
You weave, your victims to surprise:
Ah! weave them still! If false they be,
'Tis sweet to be deceived by thee!
While thus, in music, light, and bloom,
With thee they fly—these fairy hours;
While thus we breathe the blest perfume
Of thy sweet soul—oh, flower of flowers!
If death be in the blossom's sigh,
'Twere joy of such “a Rose to die!”
With thee they fly—these fairy hours;
While thus we breathe the blest perfume
Of thy sweet soul—oh, flower of flowers!
If death be in the blossom's sigh,
'Twere joy of such “a Rose to die!”
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |