I'll pick vervain nevermore on the morning of Saint John: never, for my loves are gone. I'll pick vervain nevermore once the sweetest herb to wear, where white lilies in my hair with a crimson rose I wore. For me, stricken and forlorn now the wilderness will bear but the thistle and the thorn. I'll pick vervain nevermore on the morning of Saint John. Never, for my loves are gone. |