But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT: _Autumn Woods._
But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT: _Autumn Woods._