Explore "For Music" by Helen Hay Whitney on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The Indian Summer and Love have fled, Oh, red, red lips like a crimson rose, Oh, slender hands with the tips of red, You are lost in the land of Nobody-knows.
The sweet breeze blows but it comes not back, The water flows in a silver stream, But never returns on its moon-white track, They are gone, past recall, like a lovely dream.
Ah, crimson lips like a tilted flower, Where sweetest honey awaits the bee; Come back, come back for a single hour, Dear Love, my Summer, come back to me.