The songs Love sang to us are dead:Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.The lily of our love is gone,That graced our spring with golden scent:Now in the garden low uponThe wind-stripped way its stalk is bent.Our rose of dreams is passed away,That lit our summer with sweet fire:The storm beats bare each thorny spray,And its dead leaves are trod in mire.The songs Love sang to us are dead:Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.The marigold of memoryShall fill our autumn then with glow:Haply its bitterness will beSweeter for love of long-ago.The cypress of forgetfulnessShall haunt our winter with its hue:Its apathy to us not lessDear for the dreams love’s summer knew.
The songs Love sang to us are dead:Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.The lily of our love is gone,That graced our spring with golden scent:Now in the garden low uponThe wind-stripped way its stalk is bent.Our rose of dreams is passed away,That lit our summer with sweet fire:The storm beats bare each thorny spray,And its dead leaves are trod in mire.The songs Love sang to us are dead:Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.The marigold of memoryShall fill our autumn then with glow:Haply its bitterness will beSweeter for love of long-ago.The cypress of forgetfulnessShall haunt our winter with its hue:Its apathy to us not lessDear for the dreams love’s summer knew.
The songs Love sang to us are dead:Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.
The lily of our love is gone,That graced our spring with golden scent:Now in the garden low uponThe wind-stripped way its stalk is bent.
Our rose of dreams is passed away,That lit our summer with sweet fire:The storm beats bare each thorny spray,And its dead leaves are trod in mire.
The songs Love sang to us are dead:Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.
The marigold of memoryShall fill our autumn then with glow:Haply its bitterness will beSweeter for love of long-ago.
The cypress of forgetfulnessShall haunt our winter with its hue:Its apathy to us not lessDear for the dreams love’s summer knew.
[Image of the book's back cover unavailable.]