DOROTHY
Reading edition
Dorothy is debonair; Little count hath she or care; All her gold is in her hair. And the freshness of the Spring Round this old world seems to cling When you hear her laugh or sing. On her sunny way she goes; Much she wonders—little knows, Love’s as yet a folded rose. All her smiles in dimples die; Glad is she, nor knows she why: Just to live is ecstasy! Lightly lie the chains, methinks, That have daisies for their links; Youth’s the fount where Pleasure drinks. Dorothy is debonair; Little count hath she or care, Sunshine in her heart and hair.