II.
Gone she has to happy rest With white flowers for her pillow; Moons look sadly on her breast Thro' an ever-weeping willow. Fold her hands, frail flakes of snow, Waxen as white roses blow Like herself so fair, Free from world and care.
Gone she has to happy rest With white flowers for her pillow; Moons look sadly on her breast Thro' an ever-weeping willow. Fold her hands, frail flakes of snow, Waxen as white roses blow Like herself so fair, Free from world and care.