 | The cries of New-York |  |
“RAGS! RAGS! ANY RAGS TO SELL?”
Scorn not the rag-man's poor employ!
This very page, his form revealing,
Where now thy young eyes rest in joy,
Was formed from bits like those he's wheeling.
This very page, his form revealing,
Where now thy young eyes rest in joy,
Was formed from bits like those he's wheeling.
Those “airy nothings” yet may turn,
To some rare page of song or sermon,
Where “thoughts that breathe and words that burn,”
May charm you, when you're grown a woman.
To some rare page of song or sermon,
Where “thoughts that breathe and words that burn,”
May charm you, when you're grown a woman.
| The cries of New-York | |