The Spring Of The Year - Poem by Allan Cunningham
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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