GONE were but the winter cold, And gone were but the snow, I could sleep in the wild woods Where primroses blow. Cold 's the snow at my head, And cold at my feet; And the finger of death 's at my e'en, Closing them to sleep. Let none tell my father Or my mother so dear, -- I'll meet them both in heaven At the spring of the year. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MARY DONNELLY by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM SEVEN AGES OF MAN, FR. AS YOU LIKE IT by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 64 by PHILIP SIDNEY EASTER by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN ON RECORD by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON A CONFESSION by JULIET H. CAMPBELL |