Page:The Bird of Time (Naidu).djvu/64



blossoms that strew my way, You are only woodland flowers they say.

But, I sometimes think that perchance you are Fragments of some new-fallen star;

Or golden lamps for a fairy shrine, Or golden pitchers for fairy wine.

Perchance you are, O frail and sweet! Bright anklet-bells from the wild spring's feet,

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