  Dear, perchance 'neath the frost and snow One little golden flower is sleeping, You shall find it, for you will know Whither at dawn the sun goes peeping. Come then sweetheart, we two will go Hand in hand, and a truce to weeping, If, in spite of the winter's woe, Safe in Nature's maternal keeping Under the frost rime and under the snow, One little primrose is daintily sleeping. |
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