And the sunset's crown of gold,
Bring the autumn leaves that whirl
I' the bitter wind . . . Too cold
Are the little hands, and the brow
To earth's last pillow prest . . .
Does she wake in the grave, or - rest?
And the sunset's crown of gold,
Bring the autumn leaves that whirl
I' the bitter wind . . . Too cold
Are the little hands, and the brow
To earth's last pillow prest . . .
Does she wake in the grave, or - rest?