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!’
Otras obras de Joseph Skipsey...
