 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
IV.
The day-flower blows on the eastern hills.
(Woe is me for the king's daughter!)
The throstle in the morn
Sings blithely on the thorn
And golden is the sun on the grave of the king's daughter.
(Woe is me for the king's daughter!)
The throstle in the morn
Sings blithely on the thorn
And golden is the sun on the grave of the king's daughter.
The wind of dawn through the forest shrills,
With leaves for the grave of the king's daughter.
A lily of red gold
Its flower-flames doth unfold
And glisters in the sun from the heart of the king's daughter.
With leaves for the grave of the king's daughter.
A lily of red gold
Its flower-flames doth unfold
And glisters in the sun from the heart of the king's daughter.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |