  B efore the sun rose at yesterdawn, I met a fair maiden adown the lawn; The berry and snow To her cheek gave its glow, And her bosom was fair as the sailing swan; Then, Pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine? Her beautiful voice more hearts hath won Than Orpheus' lyre of old hath done; Her ripe eyes of blue Were crystals of dew On the grass of the lawn before the sun; And, Pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine? Edward Walsh. |
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