Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | September 19, 2008


by Anne C. Lynch Botta (1815 – 1891).




        Sing me that song again,

            That wild, impassioned lay;

        The tumult of my throbbing brain

            Thy voice shall charm away.


        Pour that harmonious flood                                        5

            Upon my thirsting ear;

        ‘Twill cool the fever of my blood

            Those silvery notes to hear.


        Sing me that mournful song,

            That song of love and woe,                                   10

        That these full fountains, closed so long,

            Once more may overflow.


        And while those gentle strings

            Thy fairy hand sweeps o’er,

        Upon thy music’s trembling wings                          15

            My fainting soul shall soar.



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