Poetry.
THE RING-. , Only a time-worn circle of gold. Only a common thing, Bat eyes grow dim with a grief untold At sight of the pearls all blackened and old, In this little worthless ring. A face long dead, so dear of yore, Looks out from a bygone spring, , And loving fingers cling once more, And play again, as they played before, With this little worthless ring. It passes, that vision sweet and fair, That vanished years still bring ; Bat I keep my lock of dear brown hair. Wreathed round with pearls all dull with ' wear, In this little priceless ring. ■—Selected.
Permanent link to this item
https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/SOCR18950420.2.14
Bibliographic details
Southern Cross, Volume 3, Issue 3, 20 April 1895, Page 6
Word Count
102Poetry. Southern Cross, Volume 3, Issue 3, 20 April 1895, Page 6
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