Fanny
Mature, thy fan: and smiling face
Has now a double power to bless
For 't is the glass in which I trace
My absent Fanny's loveliness.
Her heavenly eyes above me shine,
The rose reflects her modest blush,
She breathes in every eglantine,
She sings in every warbling thrush.
That her dear form alone I see,
Need not excite surprise in any;
For Fanny 's all the world to me,
And all the world to me is Fanny.
Mature, thy fan: and smiling face
Has now a double power to bless
For 't is the glass in which I trace
My absent Fanny's loveliness.
Her heavenly eyes above me shine,
The rose reflects her modest blush,
She breathes in every eglantine,
She sings in every warbling thrush.
That her dear form alone I see,
Need not excite surprise in any;
For Fanny 's all the world to me,
And all the world to me is Fanny.
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