Under a willow
close by a brook
her lap for a pillow
her eyes for a book
she like a drummer
practiced her art
all spring and all summer—
the drum was my heart.
Hear how the willow sighs to the sun:
It is over and done with, over and done!
Hear the cold brook, that can hardly run:
It is over and done with, over and done!
Under what maple
close by what lake
will she lie next April?
Whose heart will she break?
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