Unmindful of the roses,
Unmindful of the thorn,
A reaper tired reposes
Among his gathered corn:
So might I, till the morn!Cold as the cold Decembers,
Past as the days that set,
While only one remembers
And all the rest forget,--
But one remembers yet.
Unmindful of the thorn,
A reaper tired reposes
Among his gathered corn:
So might I, till the morn!Cold as the cold Decembers,
Past as the days that set,
While only one remembers
And all the rest forget,--
But one remembers yet.
