HER harp she takes, from string to string, <br /> Her little snowy fingers, glancing, <br />Into Night's ear a wild spell fling, <br /> And all the while my heart is dancing. <br /> <br />Why thus, fond heart, thus dancest thou? <br /> 'A dream of old in memory lingers, <br />At thought of which I dance to know <br /> That mine are not the strings she fingers!'<br /><br />Joseph Skipsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-syren/
