HER METAPHORS.
A fairy dream that stole,
With evanescent light,
Across thy wakened soul,
One early Autumn night—
Am I not this to thee?
With evanescent light,
Across thy wakened soul,
One early Autumn night—
Am I not this to thee?
A lone and languid rose
That in thy care might bloom,
But on the distance throws,
Vainly, its vague perfume—
Am I not this to thee?
That in thy care might bloom,
But on the distance throws,
Vainly, its vague perfume—
Am I not this to thee?
A faint and trembling star
That drew thine eyes awhile,
Still shining on afar,
Deserted by thy smile—
Am I not this to thee?
That drew thine eyes awhile,
Still shining on afar,
Deserted by thy smile—
Am I not this to thee?
153
