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 ELEPHANT by HILAIRE BELLOC LONELY BURIAL by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET NOT OUR GOOD LUCK by ROBINSON JEFFERS SOUVENIR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON GIANT RED WOMAN by CLARENCE MAJOR |