Joseph Skipsey

The Fair Flower

SHE took the oars and rowed along
   With such a grace, the mere did waken
Into a sweet, melodious song,
   At every charming stroke was taken.
 
And at each sound, the hills around,
   By many a magic memory haunted,
And skies did seem with joy to gleam
   Within the mere, her strokes enchanted.
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