THE WILLOW TREE.FROM MARY HOWITT’s “DIAL OF LOVE AT NOON-DAY.”In a valley deep a little stream did run,Dashing o’er the pebbles in the blithsome sun;By the river’s edge the forget-me-not did grow,And a weeping willow kissed the water’s flow.The violet raised its head from under the willow-tree,Whispering gentle words, as also did the bee,Who came to gather honey from the lovely flowersOf the valley meadow, till the cruel mowersCame, each scythe in hand, to that valley deep,And cut down the flowers. Weep, weep, oh weep!Now no more the flowers fill with scent the air,Now no more the skylark has a young brood there.Lonely is the willow, by the water’s flow,Weeping, ever weeping, to the stream below:—Weeping, ever weeping, like a thing forlorn—Mourning for the flowers that were cut down at morn.The corn is ripe and golden, the autumn sun o’erhead,But in that silent valley the willow-tree is dead.
FROM MARY HOWITT’s “DIAL OF LOVE AT NOON-DAY.”
In a valley deep a little stream did run,Dashing o’er the pebbles in the blithsome sun;By the river’s edge the forget-me-not did grow,And a weeping willow kissed the water’s flow.The violet raised its head from under the willow-tree,Whispering gentle words, as also did the bee,Who came to gather honey from the lovely flowersOf the valley meadow, till the cruel mowersCame, each scythe in hand, to that valley deep,And cut down the flowers. Weep, weep, oh weep!Now no more the flowers fill with scent the air,Now no more the skylark has a young brood there.Lonely is the willow, by the water’s flow,Weeping, ever weeping, to the stream below:—Weeping, ever weeping, like a thing forlorn—Mourning for the flowers that were cut down at morn.The corn is ripe and golden, the autumn sun o’erhead,But in that silent valley the willow-tree is dead.
In a valley deep a little stream did run,Dashing o’er the pebbles in the blithsome sun;By the river’s edge the forget-me-not did grow,And a weeping willow kissed the water’s flow.The violet raised its head from under the willow-tree,Whispering gentle words, as also did the bee,Who came to gather honey from the lovely flowersOf the valley meadow, till the cruel mowersCame, each scythe in hand, to that valley deep,And cut down the flowers. Weep, weep, oh weep!Now no more the flowers fill with scent the air,Now no more the skylark has a young brood there.Lonely is the willow, by the water’s flow,Weeping, ever weeping, to the stream below:—Weeping, ever weeping, like a thing forlorn—Mourning for the flowers that were cut down at morn.The corn is ripe and golden, the autumn sun o’erhead,But in that silent valley the willow-tree is dead.
In a valley deep a little stream did run,Dashing o’er the pebbles in the blithsome sun;By the river’s edge the forget-me-not did grow,And a weeping willow kissed the water’s flow.
In a valley deep a little stream did run,
Dashing o’er the pebbles in the blithsome sun;
By the river’s edge the forget-me-not did grow,
And a weeping willow kissed the water’s flow.
The violet raised its head from under the willow-tree,Whispering gentle words, as also did the bee,Who came to gather honey from the lovely flowersOf the valley meadow, till the cruel mowersCame, each scythe in hand, to that valley deep,And cut down the flowers. Weep, weep, oh weep!Now no more the flowers fill with scent the air,Now no more the skylark has a young brood there.
The violet raised its head from under the willow-tree,
Whispering gentle words, as also did the bee,
Who came to gather honey from the lovely flowers
Of the valley meadow, till the cruel mowers
Came, each scythe in hand, to that valley deep,
And cut down the flowers. Weep, weep, oh weep!
Now no more the flowers fill with scent the air,
Now no more the skylark has a young brood there.
Lonely is the willow, by the water’s flow,Weeping, ever weeping, to the stream below:—Weeping, ever weeping, like a thing forlorn—Mourning for the flowers that were cut down at morn.
Lonely is the willow, by the water’s flow,
Weeping, ever weeping, to the stream below:—
Weeping, ever weeping, like a thing forlorn—
Mourning for the flowers that were cut down at morn.
The corn is ripe and golden, the autumn sun o’erhead,But in that silent valley the willow-tree is dead.
The corn is ripe and golden, the autumn sun o’erhead,
But in that silent valley the willow-tree is dead.