My
love is not like the red, red rose,
Which blooms for Glady’s eyes;
The
rose I say blooms fair today,
Then on the morrow dies.
My
love must be then, like the steel
Within the blacksmith’s fold;
Today
it’s hot, tonight it’s not,
Tomorrow it is cold.
Sept.
7, 1896
Joker
No comments:
Post a Comment