VALENTINE
To her whose heart has made her lovely face
A Heaven for its sweet roses; her whose grace
Of thought and word and deed forever seems
The light of some sweet angel in her soul,
Stealing from Heaven in still, half conscious
dreams:
Go, little Doves, and bear this gentle scroll
(Bearing my heart) to her - ah, if she smiles,
You need not tell: I'd know it a thousand
miles!
Go, little Doves, to her for whom I pine
And softly whisper: " Here 's your Valentine."
John James Platt.
To her whose heart has made her lovely face
A Heaven for its sweet roses; her whose grace
Of thought and word and deed forever seems
The light of some sweet angel in her soul,
Stealing from Heaven in still, half conscious
dreams:
Go, little Doves, and bear this gentle scroll
(Bearing my heart) to her - ah, if she smiles,
You need not tell: I'd know it a thousand
miles!
Go, little Doves, to her for whom I pine
And softly whisper: " Here 's your Valentine."
John James Platt.
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