The Diary
Deft her young fingers,—
A pleasant thought, a daily note.
“How sweet”, she said, “in another year
To see what I wrote!”
And then, the gaps—
Page upon page a blank, nothing to say.
She left the little book at home
When she went away.
A pleasant thought, a daily note.
“How sweet”, she said, “in another year
To see what I wrote!”
And then, the gaps—
Page upon page a blank, nothing to say.
She left the little book at home
When she went away.
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