From the bough of perfection, thou doth sit;
Your silver tresses -- oh thy scent of summer!
Present on the wind; it whispers your name.
Tis a thing of beauty, a syllable a-flame.
Come with me, let us away forevermore;
Where there is no beauty;
but tis okay to forever want more.
Your silver tresses -- oh thy scent of summer!
Present on the wind; it whispers your name.
Tis a thing of beauty, a syllable a-flame.
Come with me, let us away forevermore;
Where there is no beauty;
but tis okay to forever want more.