She fled me through the meadow,
She fled me o'er the hill.
With such a fling she fled, oh,
She may be flying still.
But doubtless she grew weary
By thicket or by wood.-
A dainty virtue, dearie,
That fled when none pursued.
The Dainty Virtue
Gamaliel Bradford
(1)
Poem topics: meadow, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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