She says: "Poor friend, you waste a treasure Which you can ne'er regain-- Time, health, and glory, for the pleasure Of toying with a chain." But then her voice so tender grows, So kind and so caressing; Each murmur from her lips that flows Comes to me like a blessing. Sometimes she says: "Sweet friend, I grieve you-- Alas, it gives me pain! What can I? Ah, might I relieve you, You ne'er had mourned in vain!" And then her little hand she presses Upon her heart, and sighs; While tears whose source not yet she guesses, Grow larger in her eyes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT MIDSUMMER by LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER PRAYER FOR A BOY WITH A KITE by DOROTHY P. ALBAUGH LIFE OR DEATH by EDMUND BOLTON IN EXAMINATION by RUPERT BROOKE PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE OF IMPORTANCE: FUST AND FRIENDS by ROBERT BROWNING KENMURE'S ON AND AWA' by ROBERT BURNS A BOLD STROKE FOR A WIFE: PROLOGUE by SUSANNA (FREEMAN) CENTLIVRE |