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Poem by Robert Bloomfield
A Spring o'erhung with many a flow'r, The grey sand dancing in its bed, Embank'd beneath a Hawthorn bower, Sent forth its waters near my head: A rosy Lass approach'd my view; I caught her blue eye's modest beam: The stranger nodded 'How d'ye do!' And leap'd across the infant stream. The water heedless pass'd away: With me her glowing image stay'd. I strove, from that auspicious day, To meet and bless the lovely Maid. I met her where beneath our feet Through downy Moss the Wild-Thyme grew; Nor Moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet, Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue. I met her where the dark Woods wave, And shaded verdure skirts the plain; And when the pale Moon rising gave New glories to her cloudy train. From her sweet Cot upon the Moor Our plighted vows to Heaven are flown; Truth made me welcome at her door, And rosy Hannah is my own.
Robert Bloomfield's other poems:
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