She has lost the fallen rose,
Wandered where no roses are.
Up across the hill she goes,
Blowing out a silver star.
In her arms the dead tree sighs—
Cold the leaves her lips have pressed.
Down disconsolate she lies,
With no bird upon her breast.
She has lost the fallen rose,
Wandered where no roses are.
Up across the hill she goes,
Blowing out a silver star.
In her arms the dead tree sighs—
Cold the leaves her lips have pressed.
Down disconsolate she lies,
With no bird upon her breast.
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