Over the balsams a golden fleece Floats in the evening sky. Gently the night wind whispers peace, Softly the branches sigh. Joys that once thrilled, Sorrows that stilled, Come not again from the past. Hopes that once led Are forgotten and dead, Then why should this memory last? Over the balsams a golden fleece Fades in the darkening sky. A wood-thrush is singing of rest and of peace, Gently the night winds sigh. |