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82. | LXXXII. THE BIRD WHOSE SONG IMPASSIONED. |
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Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | ||
LXXXII. THE BIRD WHOSE SONG IMPASSIONED.
The bird, whose song impassion'd
The soul of music wildly sighs,
Wears not a wing that's fashion'd
In Beauty's radiant dyes.
The soul of music wildly sighs,
Wears not a wing that's fashion'd
In Beauty's radiant dyes.
The flowers of fragrance lavish,
Like Love from out a guileless heart,
No glorious hues to ravish
The common eye impart.
Like Love from out a guileless heart,
No glorious hues to ravish
The common eye impart.
The lips like rubies glowing
Too often curl with scorn and pride;
The smile most brightly showing
A careless heart may hide.
Too often curl with scorn and pride;
The smile most brightly showing
A careless heart may hide.
432
But cheeks we prize most dearly,
And eyes most sure the soul to win,
Though Beauty light them rarely,
Are kindled from within.
And eyes most sure the soul to win,
Though Beauty light them rarely,
Are kindled from within.
Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | ||