 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
QUESTION
When I meet her little figure,
Simple, guileless little figure,
With its graceful crest that tosses
Up and down the flowing sea,
Does she dream that all above her—
All around her—still must love her,
Just as I do? Does she ever
Look at me?
Simple, guileless little figure,
298
Up and down the flowing sea,
Does she dream that all above her—
All around her—still must love her,
Just as I do? Does she ever
Look at me?
When the sunset's flush is on her,
Do her fancies ever wander,
Do her girlish fancies ever
Mingle with the flowing sea?
In her tender meditation,
In her mystic speculation,
Is there any lonely figure
Just like me?
Do her fancies ever wander,
Do her girlish fancies ever
Mingle with the flowing sea?
In her tender meditation,
In her mystic speculation,
Is there any lonely figure
Just like me?
When she took the flowers I sent her—
Sent in secret—sent in longing;
And all, all, except the daisy,
Tossed them on the flowing sea;
When she placed that happy flower
On her bosom's trembling dower,
Now I wonder did she ever
Think of me?
Sent in secret—sent in longing;
And all, all, except the daisy,
Tossed them on the flowing sea;
When she placed that happy flower
On her bosom's trembling dower,
Now I wonder did she ever
Think of me?
Hush, my heart. She 's coming, coming;
Loud above the city's humming,
I can hear her footfall's beating,
With the ever flowing sea.
Rosy red—a flush is on her,
As she passes—have I won her?
Eros! help me—I am sinking
In the ever flowing sea.
Loud above the city's humming,
I can hear her footfall's beating,
With the ever flowing sea.
Rosy red—a flush is on her,
As she passes—have I won her?
Eros! help me—I am sinking
In the ever flowing sea.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |