Joseph Skipsey

The Syren

HER harp she takes, from string to string,
   Her little snowy fingers, glancing,
Into Night’s ear a wild spell fling,
   And all the while my heart is dancing.
 
Why thus, fond heart, thus dancest thou?
   ‘A dream of old in memory lingers,
At thought of which I dance to know
   That mine are not the strings she fingers!’
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