WITH thoughts too lovely to be true, With thousand, thousand dreams I strew The path that you must come. And you Will find but dew. I set an image in the grass, A shape to smile on you. Alas! It is a shadow in a glass, And so will pass. I break my heart here, love, to dower With all its inmost sweet your bower. What scent will greet you in an hour? The gorse in flower. |