FRANCIS THOMPSON
Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk
Wise, idle, childish things.
She listen 'd with big-lipp'd surprise, Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:
Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine.
She knew not those sweet words she spake,
Nor knew her own sweet way , But there *b never a bird, so sweet a song
Throng'd in whose throat that dayl
O, there were flowers in Storrington
On the turf and on the spray, But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
W'as the Daisy-flower that day !
Her beauty smooth'd earth's furrow'd face'
She gave me tokens three
A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
And a wild raspberry.
A berry red, a guileless look,
A still word, strings of sand!
And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand.
For, standing artless as the air,
And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand,
And the love with her sweet eyes.
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