7

Morns like these – we parted
Noons like these – she rose!
Fluttering first – then firmer
To her fair repose –
Never did she lisp it,
And ’twas not for me –
She was mute for transport
I, for agony!
Till the evening nearing,
One the shutters drew,
Quick! a sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!

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