Diana's awful chastity
Would make a dozen men like me,
Who dread Actaeon's antlers, flee;
While Hecate is too old.
III.
But give to me my Yankee maid,
In spotless dimity arrayed,
A flower that blooms in woodland shade,
Which I as gardener tend.
Her breath as pure as morning breeze,
That, jocund, threads the trembling trees;
Her eyes as blue as summer seas
Where summer sunbeams blend.
Read more in News
No Headline