THE poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing willow, willow, willow! With his hand in his bosom, and his head upon his knee: O willow, willow, willow, willow, shall be my garland: Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow! Aye me, the green willow must be my garland. He sighed in his singing and made a great moan, Sing willow, willow, willow! I am dead to all pleasure, my true love she is gone; O willow, willow, willow, willow, shall be my garland: Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow! Aye me, the green willow must be my garland. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GREAT RACE PASSES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE SAGA OF THE SMALL-BREASTED WOMAN by KAREN SWENSON SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA by SAMUEL HAWKINS MARSHALL BYERS IMMORTALITY [OR, VERSE] by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR SONNET: 55 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM by ROBERT SOUTHEY A PRELUDE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |