THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW.
119
Oh, the morning is rosy as ever,
But the rose from her cheek has fled,
And the sunshine still is golden,
But it falls on a silvered-head.
But the rose from her cheek has fled,
And the sunshine still is golden,
But it falls on a silvered-head.
And the girlhood dreams, once vanished,
Come back in her winter time
Till her feeble pulses tremble
With the thrill of spring-time's prime.
Come back in her winter time
Till her feeble pulses tremble
With the thrill of spring-time's prime.
And, looking forth from the window,
She thinks how the trees have grown
Since, clad in her bridal whiteness,
She crossed the old door-stone.
She thinks how the trees have grown
Since, clad in her bridal whiteness,
She crossed the old door-stone.
Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure,
And dimmed her hair's young gold,
The love in her girlhood plighted
Has never grown dim nor cold.
And dimmed her hair's young gold,
The love in her girlhood plighted
Has never grown dim nor cold.
