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THE WILLOW TREES.
She has passed to a slumber too deep for the breath,
And the angel that watches her slumbers is death.
And the angel that watches her slumbers is death.
Then think of her not with so earthly a love,
As to wish her again in this dark world of care;
The voice of her Father has called her above,
To a love more divine, to a kindred more fair;
He will lift from the dust the sweet treasure he gave;
He hath ransomed the spirit, now free, from the grave.
As to wish her again in this dark world of care;
The voice of her Father has called her above,
To a love more divine, to a kindred more fair;
He will lift from the dust the sweet treasure he gave;
He hath ransomed the spirit, now free, from the grave.
THE WILLOW TREES.
They stood beside the sunlit stream that murmured by the door,
How many a joyous melody its little voice would pour
As wild and most untamably dashed on its slender tide,
Clad in the garments of a song, were song personified.
How many a joyous melody its little voice would pour
As wild and most untamably dashed on its slender tide,
Clad in the garments of a song, were song personified.
It hurried in the sunshine, yet loitered in the shade,
Pausing to hear the music its own mirthfulness had made:
Pausing to hear the music its own mirthfulness had made:
