Poems by Victor Hugo
page 55 of 429 (12%)
page 55 of 429 (12%)
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Which they warmly cloaked.
Come into the forest groves, Where the notes that Echo loves Are from horns evoked. Come! where Springtide, Madelaine, Brings a sultry breath from Spain, Giving buds their hue; And, last night, to glad your eye, Laid the floral marquetry, Red and gold and blue. Would I were, O Madelaine, As the lamb whose wool you train Through your tender hands. Would I were the bird that whirls Round, and comes to peck your curls, Happy in such bands. Were I e'en, O Madelaine, Hermit whom the herd disdain In his pious cell, When your purest lips unfold Sins which might to all be told, As to him you tell. Would I were, O Madelaine, Moth that murmurs 'gainst your pane, Peering at your rest, As, so like its woolly wing, |
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