Fragment: 'When a Lover Clasps His Fairest'
When a lover clasps his fairest,Then be our dread sport the rarest.Their caresses were like the chaffIn the tempest, and be our laughHis despair--her epitaph!
When a mother clasps her child,Watch till dusty Death has piledHis cold ashes on the clay;She has loved it many a day--She remains,--it fades away.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.