`Tis the time of the year`s sundown, and flame Hangs on the maple bough; And June is the faded flower of a name; The thin hedge hides not a singer now. Yet rich am I; for my treasures be The gold afloat in my willow-tree. Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew, Girded with blue and pearl, Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too; As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl, She sings while her soul brooding tearfully Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree. All day pure white and saffron at eve, Clouds awaiting the sun Turn them at length to ghosts that leave When the moon`s white path is slowly run Till the morning comes, and with joy for me O`er my gold agleam in the willow-tree. The lilacs that blew on the breast of May Are an old and lost delight; And the rose lies ruined in his careless way As the wind turns the poplars underwhite, Yet richer am I for the autumn; see All my misty gold in the willow-tree.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.
