THE COMB.
My mother sat me at her glass j This necklet of bright flowers sha wove; Crisscross her gentle handa did pass, And wound in my hair her love. Deep in the mirror our glances met, And grieved, lest from her care I roam, She kissed me through her tears, and On high this spangling comb.
Permanent link to this item
https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/DIGRSA19201224.2.41
Bibliographic details
Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 41, 24 December 1920, Page 12
Word Count
57THE COMB. Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 41, 24 December 1920, Page 12
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