Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
The Spring of the YearAllan Cunningham (17841842)
G
And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
Where primroses blow.
And cold at my feet;
And the finger of death ’s at my een,
Closing them to sleep.
Or my mother so dear,—
I’ll meet them both in heaven
At the spring of the year.