Misconceptions
This is a spray the bird clung to,Making it blossom with pleasure,Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,Fit for her nest and her treasure.Oh, what a hope beyond measureWas the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,--So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
This is a heart the Queen leant on,Thrilled in a minute erratic,Ere the true bosom she bent on,Meet for love's regal dalmatic.Oh, what a fancy ecstaticWas the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on--Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!
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