Fleurs De Lys, and Other Poems by Arthur Weir
page 53 of 103 (51%)
page 53 of 103 (51%)
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_THE LOVER'S APPEAL._ Tell me when you'll wed me? Sweetest, name the day: Hope has well nigh fled me, Joy has slipped away. Dearest, why this strange delay? Must I sigh till we are gray? With a smile, "Wait awhile, We are young," you say. Do you know the reason Why the nightingale Through the drear night season Pipes her tuneful tale? She was, once, like you, a maid, Who her wedding day delayed, And her swain, All in vain, For her favor prayed. She had been a maiden Fair to look upon, Sweet as breezes laden With the scent of dawn. |
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