Thursday, May 16, 2013


It is the miller's daughter,
         And she is grown so dear, so dear,
     That I would be the jewel
That trembles in her ear:
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdle
About her dainty, dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
In sorrow and in rest:
And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace,
         And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
With her laughter or her sighs:
 And I would lie so light, so light,
 I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.
                                           -Lord Tennyson

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