fret - Popular Poems and stories from category

Do not fret, do not cry, do not
Your last strength, and your heart do not torture
You're alive, you're inside me, intact,
As a buttress, a friend, an adventure

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

What is it that makes little Emily cry
Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye:
There­ — lay down your head on my bosom­ — that's right,
And now tell mamma what's the matter to-night

AT is it that makes little Emily cry
Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye:
There–lay down your head on my bosom–that's right,
And now tell mamma what's the matter to-night