74. Fragment—Her Flwoing Locks
HER flowing locks, the raven’s wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!
Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,
O’ what a feast her bonie mou’!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner!
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Robert Burns
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