When all the years are shaken From the Bough of Time, Beloved we shall waken In some far golden clime, Where no dark hour can hold us Or bitter memory fold us And youth is ne'er o'ertaken By wintry Age's rime. There joy from height to hollow Will call on us to follow And starry blossoms swaying Will set our hearts a-maying And keep our feet delaying In that far golden clime. O would the years were shaken From the Bough of Time. |