Explore "Songs" by Helen Hay Whitney on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When the red coral of your lip is pale / As the bleached sea-sand, ah, wearily, wearily, / Will you behold your face, your fingers frail, / Gnarled like a wind-blown tree; your star-bright eyes / Blind as a cloudy midnight without moon.
No more fair necklaces nor scarlet dyes / Can make you cruel to men, for soon, so soon, / Your heart will bear the years -- ah, wearily, wearily.