 | Songs of the Seasons |  |
All the incense, nearly all,
Which endowed my sister's breath
Is burnt out. The Holy Death
Sought a balmy funeral.
I have fragrance, ne'er the less,
Left me, and great flush of colour,
Both, I fear, foretelling dolour—
Neither, winsome of caress.
Which endowed my sister's breath
Is burnt out. The Holy Death
Sought a balmy funeral.
I have fragrance, ne'er the less,
Left me, and great flush of colour,
Both, I fear, foretelling dolour—
Neither, winsome of caress.
| Songs of the Seasons | |