From The North Shore. TO Day she would not show her charms; But now the Night beseeches, A white reproach of wistful arms Over the bay she reaches. Upon her gleaming bosom, wet With tears and quivering, In ropes of golden beauty set Her vivid jewels swing. Upon the pathway of the night She, pausing often, paces; About her body waves gleam white Like froth of filmy laces; And to her pleasure hurrying, Their torches holding high, On molten waters smouldering The ferry-boats flame by.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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