|
|
The Young Indian Maid.
By Thomas Moore
There came a nymph dancing
Gracefully, gracefully,
Her eye a light glancing
Like the blue sea;
And while all this gladness
Around her steps hung,
Such sweet notes of sadness
Her gentle lips sung,
That ne'er while I live from my memory shall fade
The song or the look of that young Indian maid.
Her zone of bells ringing
Cheerily, cheerily,
Chimed to her singing
Light echoes of glee;
But in vain did she borrow
Of mirth the gay tone,
Her voice spoke of sorrow,
And sorrow alone.
Nor e'er while I live from my memory shall fade
The song or the look of that young Indian maid.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 349 times.
|
|
