Poems by Joanna Baillie

THE features speak the warmest heart,
But not for me its ardour glows;
In that soft blush I have no part,
That mingles with her bosom's snows.

In that dear drop I have no share,
That trembles in her melting eye;
Nor is my love the tender care
That bids her heave that anxious sigh.

Not fancy's happiest hours create
Visions of rapture as divine,
As the dear bliss that must await
The man, whose soul is knit to thine.

But oh! farewell this treach'rous theme,
Which, tho' 'tis misery to forego,
Yields but of joy one soothing dream,
That grief like mine thou ne'er shalt know.

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