I.
You sang to me, Dear, in the morns far away,
When the birds of the spring sang the matins of May,
And the songs that you sang to me then were as sweet
As the whispers the daisies lisped low at your feet.
You sang to me, Dear, in the morns far away,
When the birds of the spring sang the matins of May,
And the songs that you sang to me then were as sweet
As the whispers the daisies lisped low at your feet.