A Prelude
My heart is but a voiceless thing —
I cannot sing as skylarks do;
So sparrow songs are all I bring
To chirrup them to you.
Yet, sweetheart, solace you in this:
These skylarks are too prone to roam,
While, sparrowlike, I find my bliss
And sing of it, at home.
I cannot sing as skylarks do;
So sparrow songs are all I bring
To chirrup them to you.
Yet, sweetheart, solace you in this:
These skylarks are too prone to roam,
While, sparrowlike, I find my bliss
And sing of it, at home.
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