DOMINIQUE.
A sweet hope fluttering at my heart
Seems oftener like despair,
A treasure, never yet confessed,
Turns fair to foul, and foul to fair.
Seems oftener like despair,
A treasure, never yet confessed,
Turns fair to foul, and foul to fair.
Because I may not hope this hope,
This feeling may not feel,
Its joy has boundless aim and scope,
Its fiery pain no touch can heal.
This feeling may not feel,
Its joy has boundless aim and scope,
Its fiery pain no touch can heal.
