an offering to anna.
159
Bird of my bosom! blessed shape
Of joy and song thou art;
Sweet soul of tenderness and truth,
Soft nestled in my heart.
Of joy and song thou art;
Sweet soul of tenderness and truth,
Soft nestled in my heart.
Thou say'st that heart is Poesy's harp,
A lute which Pleasure plays,
And Love's own dimpled fingers wake
To gay or mournful lays.
A lute which Pleasure plays,
And Love's own dimpled fingers wake
To gay or mournful lays.
Then grieve not, should strains sad or harsh
Rise sometimes from its strings,
When thou dost jar the silver chords
With the fluttering of thy wings.
Rise sometimes from its strings,
When thou dost jar the silver chords
With the fluttering of thy wings.
