A Love Story by A Bushman
page 13 of 343 (03%)
page 13 of 343 (03%)
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Waving 'midst Autumn's sombre groves:--
On the heart to breathe that sadness Which contemplation loves. I will not be the morning ray, Dancing upon the river's crest, All light, all motion, when the stream Turns to the sun her breast. I'd rather be the gentle shade, Lengthening as eve comes stealing on, And rest in pensive sadness there, When those bright rays are gone. I will not be a smile to play Upon thy coral lip, and shed Around it sweetness, like the sun Risen from his crimson bed. Oh, no! I'll be the tear that steals In pity from that eye of blue, Making the cheek more lovely red, Like rose-leaf dipp'd in dew. I will not be remember'd when Mirth shall her pageant joys impart,-- A dream to sparkle in thine eye, Yet vanish from thy heart. But when pensive sadness clouds thee, |
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