How can I forget those April summers.
Blue now is brighter to deeply to tell.
Red roses too our favorite flowers.
Scars were silver and words rang as knell.
Yes, I cried when I kissed thy pallid brow.
And thus, the words were spoken, woe is me!
I can tell that I am not happy now.
For it is thee that I will never see.
Quivering dread setting in my bossom.
That bleak April summers had made me cold.
And thy child I bore, I named her, Blossom.
Seraphs took thee and I was never told.
On thy sepulchre, I sat down and wept.
And near that rushy glen, thy vows, I kept