To a Lady with Her Back to Me
I know thy face is fresh and bright,
Thou angel-moulded girl;
I caught one glimpse of purest white,
I saw one auburn curl.
O would the whispering ripples breathe
The thoughts that vainly strive—
She turns—she turns to look on me;
Black! cross-eyed! seventy-five!
Thou angel-moulded girl;
I caught one glimpse of purest white,
I saw one auburn curl.
O would the whispering ripples breathe
The thoughts that vainly strive—
She turns—she turns to look on me;
Black! cross-eyed! seventy-five!
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