166
A CRIMSON CLOVER.
And softly, through the maple-glooms,
From sunny meadows stole the breeze!
From sunny meadows stole the breeze!
So night fell, but it seemed not dark;
The wind blew, but it was not chill;
Up rolled the mist till I could mark
The Pleiades gleam above the hill.
"Ah, storm and loss, regret and pain,
Ye are but shades that pass!" I said;
And, turning homeward through the lane,
I plucked and wore the clover red.
The wind blew, but it was not chill;
Up rolled the mist till I could mark
The Pleiades gleam above the hill.
"Ah, storm and loss, regret and pain,
Ye are but shades that pass!" I said;
And, turning homeward through the lane,
I plucked and wore the clover red.
