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A lover's diary | ||
110
[III. I wish the rose were not so red]
I wish the rose were not so red,
The bird more bashful with his glee,—
They join themselves to bliss that I
Shall never in my lifetime see.
The bird more bashful with his glee,—
They join themselves to bliss that I
Shall never in my lifetime see.
I wish the wind would cease to play
Upon the elm-leaves at the door,
The old, sweet tunes,—I cannot bear
Ever to hear them any more.
Upon the elm-leaves at the door,
The old, sweet tunes,—I cannot bear
Ever to hear them any more.
O, gift of God's good speech abused!
I do not mean the things I say;
Last year my single plot of flowers
Within the sickle's compass lay;
I do not mean the things I say;
Last year my single plot of flowers
Within the sickle's compass lay;
111
And when I think how little ground
They needed, and how sagely sweet
They taught me their humility,
Growing no higher than my feet,
They needed, and how sagely sweet
They taught me their humility,
Growing no higher than my feet,
I cannot bear to see the Spring
Renew again her soft green lease,—
The honeysuckle's scarlet throat
Reminds me of my murdered peace.
Renew again her soft green lease,—
The honeysuckle's scarlet throat
Reminds me of my murdered peace.
A lover's diary | ||