My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter than the evening cloud. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Here upon my true love's grave All the coldness of a maid! Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll gird the briars Here my body still shall bow. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, ་ Tall trams on silver-shining rails, With grinding wheels and swaying tops, And screeching cars. "Buy, buy!" the sellers And when the sunshine has its way Yet one gray man in Lady Street Four cobwebbed walls. But all day long A time is singing in his head Of youth in Gloucester lanes. He hears The tapping of the woodpeckers 134 By dingy houses, desolate rows |