My Love Is Like An Angel
My love is like an angel.
Her eyes are bright and blue.
Her hanging locks are golden,
but is her heart so too?
When shall my arms next clutch her?
At the rising of the sun?
Or when the full moon glimmers
ere the course of day has run?
To this I have no answer,
and now is darkest night.
The star of eve and morning
eludes my powers of sight.
Behold! There looms a rose-bush,
which is budding in the gloom.
May yet that knave named Jack Frost
snatch summer's scarlet bloom?
My love is like an angel,
but one who rarely sings.
She finds new perches easily
thanks to her fluffy wings
|