THE SINGER.
47
THE SINGER.
She sang of life and death,
Of joys that end with breath,
And joys the end doth bring;
Of joys that end with breath,
And joys the end doth bring;
Of passion's bitter pain,
And memory's tears like rain,
Which will not cease to flow;
And memory's tears like rain,
Which will not cease to flow;
Of the deep grave's delights,
Where through long days and nights
They hear the green things grow,
Where through long days and nights
They hear the green things grow,