Catherine - Part 13
On holiday they all come flaunting
With pretty sweethearts for delight,
And frolic in the blossoming night;—
I walk alone; the best is wanting.
An ailing man, I wander lonely;
I flee the mirth, the dancing feet,
The shining lamp, the music sweet;—
I think of England only.
I pluck the rose, and know not whither
Its budding beauty to bestow;
Musing I walk and full of woe—
My heart and the roses wither.
With pretty sweethearts for delight,
And frolic in the blossoming night;—
I walk alone; the best is wanting.
An ailing man, I wander lonely;
I flee the mirth, the dancing feet,
The shining lamp, the music sweet;—
I think of England only.
I pluck the rose, and know not whither
Its budding beauty to bestow;
Musing I walk and full of woe—
My heart and the roses wither.
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