Echoes of Her
Brown roads have been too muddy,
Gold roads have been too bright,
And wind and moon and starshine
Have hurt my rest by night. . . .
The flowers that they bring me
Will wither—Oh, I know!
And they will freeze in winter
Laid on the hard cold snow.
Gold roads have been too bright,
And wind and moon and starshine
Have hurt my rest by night. . . .
The flowers that they bring me
Will wither—Oh, I know!
And they will freeze in winter
Laid on the hard cold snow.
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