by Patience Worth
What carest, dear, should sorrow trace
Where dimples sat, and should
Her dove-grey cloud to settle 'neath thine eye?
The withering of thy curving cheek
Bespeaks the spending of thy heart.
Lips once full are bruised
By biting of restraint. Wax wiser, dear!
To wane is but to rest and rise once more.
Last updated January 14, 2019