FRANCES BROOKE1724-1789
1724-1789
Her mouth, which a smile,Devoid of all guile,Half opens to view,Is the bud of the roseIn the morning that blows,Impearl’d with the dew.More fragrant her breathThan the flow’r-scented heathAt the dawning of day;The hawthorn in bloom,The lily’s perfume,Or the blossoms of may.
Her mouth, which a smile,Devoid of all guile,Half opens to view,Is the bud of the roseIn the morning that blows,Impearl’d with the dew.More fragrant her breathThan the flow’r-scented heathAt the dawning of day;The hawthorn in bloom,The lily’s perfume,Or the blossoms of may.
Her mouth, which a smile,Devoid of all guile,Half opens to view,Is the bud of the roseIn the morning that blows,Impearl’d with the dew.
Her mouth, which a smile,
Devoid of all guile,
Half opens to view,
Is the bud of the rose
In the morning that blows,
Impearl’d with the dew.
More fragrant her breathThan the flow’r-scented heathAt the dawning of day;The hawthorn in bloom,The lily’s perfume,Or the blossoms of may.
More fragrant her breath
Than the flow’r-scented heath
At the dawning of day;
The hawthorn in bloom,
The lily’s perfume,
Or the blossoms of may.