 | At the holy well |  |
VALENTINE.
To her whose heart has made her lovely faceA heaven for its sweet roses: her whose grace
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The light of some sweet angel in her soul,
Stealing from Heaven in still, half-conscious dreams:
Go, little doves, and bear this gentle scroll
(Bearing my heart) to her—ah, if she smiles,
You need not tell: I'd know it a thousand miles!
Go, little doves, to her for whom I pine,
And softly whisper: “Here's your Valentine.”
| At the holy well | |