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A PAINTED FAN.
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A PAINTED FAN.
OSES and butterflies snared on a fan,All that is left of a summer gone by;
Of swift, bright wings that flashed in the sun,
And loveliest blossoms that bloomed to die!
By what subtle spell did you lure them here,
Fixing a beauty that will not change;
Roses whose petals never will fall,
Bright, swift wings that never will range?
Fixing a beauty that will not change;
Roses whose petals never will fall,
Bright, swift wings that never will range?
Had you owned but the skill to snare as well
The swift-winged hours that came and went,
To prison the words that in music died,
And fix with a spell the heart's content,
The swift-winged hours that came and went,
To prison the words that in music died,
And fix with a spell the heart's content,
