HOW happy those days, when with health
I tasted the freshness of morn!
Then sweet was the song of the lark,
While the dew-drops bespangled each thorn.
While the dew-drop, &c.
With Edwy through meadows I stray’d,
View’d with pleasure the full-bending corn,
Then cull’d the sweet flow’rets that bloom’d,
For a chaplet my head to adorn.
For a chaplet, &c.
A token of love I receiv’d,
Which since in my bosom I’ve worn,
Then warbled my thanks with the lark,
While the dew-drops bespangled each thorn.
While the dew-drops, &c.
When Edwy his passion reveal’d,
I never once laugh’d him to scorn;
For his language, devoid of all guile,
Was pure as the dew-drops of morn.
Was pure, &c.
His ashes now rest in the urn,
And I am left pensive and lorn,
Unheeded the song of the lark,
Or the dew-drops that spangle each thorn.
Or the dew-drops, &c.
(Margaretta Wedderburn)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Language PoemsBased on Keywords: bespangled, edwy