Lesbia
Sweet,
And delicate,
And rare,
At the end
Of a wind-blown fragrant bough,
The apple swings!
If I,
Who fly no more,
Had wings!
Or if
My wizardry
Knew how!
I'd wing
To where that sweetness swings,
—At the end of the bough!
And delicate,
And rare,
At the end
Of a wind-blown fragrant bough,
The apple swings!
If I,
Who fly no more,
Had wings!
Or if
My wizardry
Knew how!
I'd wing
To where that sweetness swings,
—At the end of the bough!
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