The Willow
On sweet young earth where the myrtle presses
Long we lay, when the May was new
The willow was winding the moon in her tresses
The bud of the rose was told with dew
And now on the brittle ground I'm lying
Screaming to die with the dead year's dead
The stem of the rose is black and drying
The willow is tossing the wind from her head
Long we lay, when the May was new
The willow was winding the moon in her tresses
The bud of the rose was told with dew
And now on the brittle ground I'm lying
Screaming to die with the dead year's dead
The stem of the rose is black and drying
The willow is tossing the wind from her head