Stresa
Sara Teasdale
The moon grows out of the hills A yellow flower, The lake is a dreamy bride Who waits her hour. Beauty has filled my heart, It can hold no more, It is full, as the lake is full, From shore to shore.
The moon grows out of the hills A yellow flower, The lake is a dreamy bride Who waits her hour. Beauty has filled my heart, It can hold no more, It is full, as the lake is full, From shore to shore.