Dear dead women, with such hair, too - what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms I feel chilly and grow old.
Dear dead women, with such hair, too - what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms I feel chilly and grow old.
Round and round, like a dance of snow In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go Floating the women faded for ages, Sculptured in stone on the poet's pages.
There 's a woman like a dewdrop, she 's so purer than the purest. A Blot in the 'Scutcheon.
God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides,one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories