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keepsakes.
And keep it for poor Amy's sake,
This tress of golden hair:
That when long years had rolled o'er me,
And she was sleeping peacefully,
Its shining threads perhaps might tell
Of one who loved me passing well.
She died upon that summer morn—
I marked her fleeting breath,
And caught her last faint sigh, and saw
Her features fixed in death!
And I have kept the braid of hair,
In memory of one so fair:
Its glossy folds still speak to me
The gentle name of Amy Lee!
This tress of golden hair:
That when long years had rolled o'er me,
And she was sleeping peacefully,
Its shining threads perhaps might tell
Of one who loved me passing well.
She died upon that summer morn—
I marked her fleeting breath,
And caught her last faint sigh, and saw
Her features fixed in death!
And I have kept the braid of hair,
In memory of one so fair:
Its glossy folds still speak to me
The gentle name of Amy Lee!
A broken chain—its severed links
Are where? in some strange land they lie;
But he who holds them hath, roethinks,
A day-dream when they meet his eye:
He turns in thought, half musing then,
Unto one bright, autumnal even,
When moonbeams lit our native glen,
And stars were thickly set in heaven,
Are where? in some strange land they lie;
But he who holds them hath, roethinks,
A day-dream when they meet his eye:
He turns in thought, half musing then,
Unto one bright, autumnal even,
When moonbeams lit our native glen,
And stars were thickly set in heaven,
