IV.
Thou art younger by seven years-- Ah!--so bashful at my gaze, That the lashes, hung with tears, Grow too heavy to upraise? I would wound thee by no touch Which thy shyness feels as such. Dost thou mind me, Dear, so much?
Thou art younger by seven years-- Ah!--so bashful at my gaze, That the lashes, hung with tears, Grow too heavy to upraise? I would wound thee by no touch Which thy shyness feels as such. Dost thou mind me, Dear, so much?