The Rose


My sweet, fair maid, was like an English rose,
Stays quite demure from dawn to somber dusk,
And doe-eyed, mild, was her most cherished gaze,
That happened once upon an ivory tusk;
And intricate was that small bauble, white,
By nature - pure as the wintry season’s snow,
That glowingly adorned the restive night,
With lurid shadows, and lights both soft and low;
And this, your comb for morning’s cool embrace!
Lithe hands that wove through several tresses brown,
And framed the regal fairness of your face,
Milk pale, beneath its silken, plaited crown!
All gold! New gold! Were your bracelets, rings, and bows,
That jingled by the springtide garden rows,
(The remembrance of a love, in love, well knows)!

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