ToC

 

Blow, wind, blow,

The fields are white with snow—

Sleeping daisies, deep and warm,

Cannot hear the Winter storm.

Freeze, air, freeze,

The rime is on the trees—

Sleeping buds within the bough,

Dream of spring and cuckoos now.

Turn, earth, turn,

The flames of life do burn—

Sleeping girl, my baby dove,

Knows no world but mother's love.

 

 

 

 

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