I'm not his wife. I am his paramour: His wayside love, picked up in journeying: Rose of the hedgerows; fragrant, till he fling Me down beside the ditch, a drooped thing Some country boy may stick into his hat. A paramour has no more use than that.
- by Lesbia Harford165
Child Sun Why will you play Peep Bo Now in, now out The workroom window so? True 'tis That there are children here; But they've no time To play Peep Bo, my dear.
Poems by Lesbia Harford, Lesbia Harford's poems collection. Lesbia Harford is a classical and famous poet (1891 - 1927 / Australia). Share all poems of Lesbia Harford.