ROTHERMEL'S WILLOW.
117
Of one who has pined through many a day
For the gracious airs of the genial May,
For the gracious airs of the genial May,
To watch the strife of the restless tree,
And wonder what it would say to me.
And wonder what it would say to me.
For still in the branches' drifting sweep
There comes a whisper like "Weep, O weep !"
There comes a whisper like "Weep, O weep !"
