THE SLEEPING HEART
My heart is in the hawthorn tree.
I left it in the lovely house,
Hidden among the blooming boughs.
And every little crimson rose,
That blushes, reddens, pales or glows,
Shall give its secret up to thee!
My heart is in the hawthorn tree.
I left it in the lovely house,
Hidden among the blooming boughs.
And every little crimson rose,
That blushes, reddens, pales or glows,
Shall give its secret up to thee!
My heart is in the hawthorn tree.
My heart is in the hawthorn tree!
It wears a fragile, rose-red dress:
A robe of spring-time loveliness.
It has forgot its songs to sing,
And sleepeth like a tired thing,—
To dream new songs, to sing to thee.—
My heart is in the hawthorn-tree.
It wears a fragile, rose-red dress:
A robe of spring-time loveliness.
It has forgot its songs to sing,
And sleepeth like a tired thing,—
To dream new songs, to sing to thee.—
My heart is in the hawthorn-tree.