The lost pleiad ; and other poems | ||
FIRST LOVE.
With snow-white, lily-hand she softly bound
The healing herb upon my wounded heart;
But, as she healed the deep, life-taking wound,
Her own was stabbed beyond the reach of art.
The healing herb upon my wounded heart;
But, as she healed the deep, life-taking wound,
Her own was stabbed beyond the reach of art.
Not as the husbandman the yellow ear,
Whose ripeness seems to chide his lazy hand;
I drew her eagerly my bosom near,
And—sat down with her on the snow-white sand.
Whose ripeness seems to chide his lazy hand;
I drew her eagerly my bosom near,
And—sat down with her on the snow-white sand.
New York, April 5th, 1839.
The lost pleiad ; and other poems | ||