Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/302

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foot is in the stirrup—on! 'Tis time, my steed, that we were gone.
 * The daylight wears:

Thy poor, poor master turneth mad, We must be gone—the words are sad—
 * Who cares!

Fast in a net-work, she had thought, Of siren love I had been caught,
 * And so she hurled

Contemptuous words; but I am free— Place, place between her pride and me
 * The world.

Light were our steps, our spirits gay, When thus we journeyed day by day
 * Beneath the firs,

To see the fair in her abode. Now, we must shun the beaten road
 * To hers.

How proud she is of all her charms, False gods I worshipped—rounded arms,
 * A colour pale,

A mirrored heaven in dark blue eyes, A red mouth whence coquettish sighs
 * Exhale.