591. The Spring of the Year

Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842

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.

The Oxford Book of English Verse, HTML edition