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When childhood's merry laughter yields
To girlhood's softer tone.
To girlhood's softer tone.
I do not know if round her heart
Love yet hath thrown his wing,
I rather think she's like myself
An April-hearted thing;
I only know that she is fair,
And loves me passing well;
But who this gentle maiden is
I feel not free to tell.
Love yet hath thrown his wing,
I rather think she's like myself
An April-hearted thing;
I only know that she is fair,
And loves me passing well;
But who this gentle maiden is
I feel not free to tell.
