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330 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF |
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ALICE FURLONG
(1875- )
THE DREAMER
A
WIND that dies on the meadows lush, Trembling stars in the breathless hush ! — The maiden's sleeping face doth bloom A sad, white lily in the gloom.
Along the limpid horizon borne The first gold breathing of the morn ! — A lovely dawn of dreams doth creep Athwart the darkness of her sleep.
In the dim shadow of the eaves A quiet stir of lifted leaves ! As in the old, beloved days, She wandereth by happy ways.
With half-awakened twitterings,
The young birds preen their folded wings !
She giveth a forget-me-not
To him who long ago forgot.
Athwart the meadowy, dewy-sweet, A wind comes wandering on light feet! For her the wind is from the south, His kiss is kind upon her mouth. |
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