POEMS OF JAMES RYDER RANDALL
In your solitude still, do you sing the old songs?
O, the “Long Weary Day!” shall it cease for us never?
But here, in the ruck of the sumptuous throngs,
Your name in my lone heart is sacred forever!
Ah me! I am chill, for ’tis fearful to sit
By the Cobra, when languished with tenderer matters—
Ha! I see that my secret is guessed—every bit—
For she’s nibbling her lip, and the fan is in tatters.
Beautiful—yes! but I shall not succumb,
Though wifeless from Beersheba even to Dan;
Heigho! if my heart were but under her thumb,
She’d crumple it, too, like the innocent fan!
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