The Dainty Virtue - Poem by Gamaliel Bradford
She fled me through the meadow,
She fled me o'er the hill.
With such a fling she fled, oh,
She may be flying still.
But doubtless she grew weary
By thicket or by wood.—
A dainty virtue, dearie,
That fled when none pursued.
Comments about The Dainty Virtue by Gamaliel Bradford
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.