To H. K.
Like a willow, like a reed
Is my Love's grace:
And her face
Like a soft, pale-petaled rose:
And my Love's breast
Like the rest
Of a snow-drift bright and white:
And to kiss there—
Ah! what compare
Can I find in rhyme for that!
Where is Love's own
Jewelled throne.
Is my Love's grace:
And her face
Like a soft, pale-petaled rose:
And my Love's breast
Like the rest
Of a snow-drift bright and white:
And to kiss there—
Ah! what compare
Can I find in rhyme for that!
Where is Love's own
Jewelled throne.
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