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193
MY LOVE.
My love is fair as the morn;
Yes, fair as the summer morning,
When with fold on fold of red, and gold,
The sun in the east gives warning,
And a soft, rare light, not dim nor bright,
O'er hill and mountain lingers;
And flower, and vine with jewels shine—
Bedecked by the fairie's fingers.
Yes, fair as the summer morning,
When with fold on fold of red, and gold,
The sun in the east gives warning,
And a soft, rare light, not dim nor bright,
O'er hill and mountain lingers;
And flower, and vine with jewels shine—
Bedecked by the fairie's fingers.
My love has eyes like the clouds,
That are dyed with the autumn's splendor,
So darkly blue, where her soul looks through—
So truthful and so tender.
When their light is hid by the snowy lid,
My heart seems lost in shadow.
And her glance will chase the gloom from my face,
Like sunlight on a meadow.
That are dyed with the autumn's splendor,
So darkly blue, where her soul looks through—
So truthful and so tender.
When their light is hid by the snowy lid,
My heart seems lost in shadow.
And her glance will chase the gloom from my face,
Like sunlight on a meadow.
My love has cheeks like a rose—
Yes, like a rose in blossom,
And a flake of snow is her polished brow,
And a drift of snow is her bosom;
And her hair sweeps down, half gold, half brown,
Like a silken veil, to cover
The matchless grace of her form and face,
From the burning eyes of her lover.
Yes, like a rose in blossom,
And a flake of snow is her polished brow,
And a drift of snow is her bosom;
And her hair sweeps down, half gold, half brown,
Like a silken veil, to cover
The matchless grace of her form and face,
From the burning eyes of her lover.
194
My love has a voice like a thrush—
Yes, like a thrush when singing.
And the wondering lark cries, “Listen! hark!”
When he hears her glad tone ringing.
Oh she is fair, beyond compare;
And how her sweet face flushes,
When I whisper low a tale we know—
And the rose is shamed by her blushes.
Yes, like a thrush when singing.
And the wondering lark cries, “Listen! hark!”
When he hears her glad tone ringing.
Oh she is fair, beyond compare;
And how her sweet face flushes,
When I whisper low a tale we know—
And the rose is shamed by her blushes.
1871.
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