Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: So were it with me if forgetting could be willed Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter Chill as song. a dull face frowning on a 60 Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bub- Ay, but shows the South-west a ripplebling well-spring, feathered bosom Let me hear her laughter: I would have All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. |