The Voice Of The Willows

Hiding away from the sunlight, Close by a rippling stream, Hallowed by childish fancies And many a waking dream; There is my royal palace, Within it my regal throne, The former, a grave of willows, The latter, a mossy stone. And legends of hope did the willows tell To my childish ears, in that rustic dell. Here, in my sunny childhood, I dreamed in my mystic home, Weaving the fairy garlands To wear in the years to come. Friendship, and love, and honour, They all were to be my own; The future was strewn with roses, As I dreamed on my mossy stone. And still through the leaves, as they fluttered or fell The breezes sang, in the willow dell. Visions of hope are departed, Fairy-like dreams have fled. The thorns still remain, but the roses, Like friendship and love, are dead. The breezes sigh through the willows, I ponder and dream alone Of the life beyond the river, As I sit on my mossy stone. And the breezes sound like a funeral knell, As they sigh and sob, through the willow dell.