That wooing air that wiles the red rose forth
That wooing air that wiles the red rose forth
To fling its passionate fragrance everywhere—
To lay its crimson heart all torn and bare
On Summer's altar. Not the bitter north,
Keen-cutting as an Arab scimetar,
But that which feels the touch of Sirius, scorching star.
To fling its passionate fragrance everywhere—
To lay its crimson heart all torn and bare
On Summer's altar. Not the bitter north,
Keen-cutting as an Arab scimetar,
But that which feels the touch of Sirius, scorching star.
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