Spring of the Year, The
by: Allan Cunningham (1784-1842)
Gone were but the winter cold,
And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
Where primroses blow.
Cold's the snow at my head,
And cold at my feet;
And the finger of death's at my e'en,
Closing them to sleep.
Let none tell my father
Or my mother so dear,—
I'll meet them both in heaven
At the spring of the year.
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Wet Sheet And A Flowing Sea, A
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