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why will a rose-bod blow?
And when above my early grave
Thy gentle spirit prays relief,
Feel'st thou no angel-plumage wave
Above thee in thy grief?
Thy gentle spirit prays relief,
Feel'st thou no angel-plumage wave
Above thee in thy grief?
Je veille sur toi, ma mère!
Oh! still thy lost but happy boy
Is near thee, With thee everywhere,
In sorrow and in joy.
Oh! still thy lost but happy boy
Is near thee, With thee everywhere,
In sorrow and in joy.
Forget not then, where'er thou art,
The promise-words that bless thy prayer,
But wear them in thy "heart of heart,"
"Je veille sur toi, ma mère!"
The promise-words that bless thy prayer,
But wear them in thy "heart of heart,"
"Je veille sur toi, ma mère!"
WHY WILL A ROSE-BUD BLOW?
I wish the bud would never blow,
'Tis prettier and purer so;
It blushes through its bower of green,
And peeps above the messy screen
'Tis prettier and purer so;
It blushes through its bower of green,
And peeps above the messy screen
