186
A WALK TO MY OWN GRAVE.
You want some flowers? Oh!
We shall not find them on the way.
Only a few brier-roses grow,
Here and there, in the sun, I say.
It is dusty and dry all day,
But at evening there is shade,
And—you will not be afraid?
We shall not find them on the way.
Only a few brier-roses grow,
Here and there, in the sun, I say.
It is dusty and dry all day,
But at evening there is shade,
And—you will not be afraid?
Ah, the flowers? Surely, yes.
At the end there will be a few.
"Violets? Violets?" So I guess,
And a little grass and dew;
And some birds—you want them blue?
And a spring, too, as I think,
Where we will rest and drink.
At the end there will be a few.
"Violets? Violets?" So I guess,
And a little grass and dew;
And some birds—you want them blue?
And a spring, too, as I think,
Where we will rest and drink.
Now kiss me and be good,
For you can go back home and play.
This is my grave here in the wood,
Where I, for a while, must stay.
Wait—will you always pray,
Though you are sleepy, at night?
There! do not forget me—quite.
For you can go back home and play.
This is my grave here in the wood,
Where I, for a while, must stay.
Wait—will you always pray,
Though you are sleepy, at night?
There! do not forget me—quite.
