The sun's my fire.
Golden, from a magnificence of blue,
Should be its hue.
But woolly clouds,
Like boarding-house old ladies, come and sit
In front of it.
White sunshine, then,
That has the frosty glimmer of white hair,
Freezes the air.
They must forget,
So self-absorbed are they, so very old,
That I'll be cold.
More verses by Lesbia Harford
- She Has All Ireland In Her Blood
- To Look Across At Moira Gives Me Pleasure
- Pink Eucalyptus Flowers
- Sometimes I Watch You, Mark Your Brooding Eyes
- Sometimes I Wish That I Were Helen-Fair