  GO, pretty Rose, and to her tell All I would say, could I but see The slender form I know so well, The roguish eyes that laughed at me. And when your fragrance fills the room, Tell her of all I hope and fear; With every breath of sweet perfume, Whisper my greetings in her ear. But, Roses, stay—there is one thing You must not mention (don’t forget, For it might be embarrassing), And that is, you’re not paid for yet! E. B. Reed. |
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