Though they had buried me dark and low, My soul with the season’s seemed to grow.
II.
I was a bride in my sickness sore, I was a bride nine months and more.
From throes of pain they buried me low, For death had finished a mother’s woe.
But under the sod, in the grave’s dread doom, I dreamed of my baby in glimmer and gloom.
I dreamed of my babe, and I kenned that his rest Was broken in wailings on my dead breast.
I dreamed that a rose-leaf hand did cling: Oh, you cannot bury a mother in spring.
When the winds are soft and the blossoms are red She could not sleep in her cold earth-bed.
I dreamed of my babe for a day and a night, And then I rose in my grave-clothes white.
I rose like a flower from my damp earth-bed To the world of sorrowing overhead.