154
HER METAPHORS.
A pearl cast at thy feet
And worn by thee an hour,
Then left where fierce waves beat,
The plaything of their power—
Am I not this to thee?
And worn by thee an hour,
Then left where fierce waves beat,
The plaything of their power—
Am I not this to thee?
A half remembered strain,
That once could charm thine ear,
Whose music thou again
Wilt sometimes sigh to hear—
Am I not this to thee?
That once could charm thine ear,
Whose music thou again
Wilt sometimes sigh to hear—
Am I not this to thee?
