by Meta Orred

Her lips like foxgloves, pink and pale,
Went sighing like an autumn gale;
Yet, When the sunlight passed by, 
They opened out with half a sigh.
Her smile, the last faint vesper light
As swoons the eve to sleep away,
Remaining through the summer night
A lamp of love by which to pray.

 

 

Note: From the Poetical Birthday Book for October 3rd, from 1887.


As featured on
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Words inspired by the garden are the sweetest, most beautiful words of all.
Foxgloves