I am going to gather it on the way to the market
>From my own sweet thoughts and from elegant conversation
With notable misters.
Won't you come with me?
A Portrait
How shall I write of you, little friend,
To my father on the River of Serenity?
I will tell him of your twenty yellow curls
Tumbling in a cascade about your shoulders;
Your bright mouth and fine brow,
Lit by yet brighter eyes,
Where fireflies dance;
How in your cheeks you hold
The colours of the flower before its leaves unclose;
How the tones of your voice, sounding in my ears,
Float before my eyes like strings of lanterns;
How, when I look closely upon you,
I see my thoughts like a white river in your eyes;
How, as I walk down the street where you have trod,
The very stones are to me the smiles that you scatter as you pass.
How your look thrills my heart as a guitar thrills to the touch.
And I will tell him that you are not for me,
For you are white and I am yellow;
Unless, perchance, shame and disgrace fall upon you,
As it falls upon some girls of this quarter,
And your neighbours and friends pass by the other way.
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