Mirth. Broom
BROOM .
Joy, like the zephyr,
That flies o'er the flower,
Rippling it into
Fresh fairness each hour —
Joy has waved o'er thee
His sun-woven wing,
And dimpled thy cheek,
Like the roses of spring.
Joy, like the zephyr,
That flies o'er the flower,
Rippling it into
Fresh fairness each hour —
Joy has waved o'er thee
His sun-woven wing,
And dimpled thy cheek,
Like the roses of spring.
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