To a Picture of my Mother as a Girl
Did ever a youth pass by the spot
Your fragrance, love, made dear,
Without a heart-leap at the lot
That drew his fancy near?
Was ever a maid of fairy stuff
Like this in days of old —
A rose already fine enough
Without that heart of gold!
Your fragrance, love, made dear,
Without a heart-leap at the lot
That drew his fancy near?
Was ever a maid of fairy stuff
Like this in days of old —
A rose already fine enough
Without that heart of gold!
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