On this, the day you were born
I will not glimpse you, nor hear your sweet voice
Evermore the willow will mourn
on this, the day you were born.
And some fair face will sing you a song
and some old, old friend will clap with great glee
and I shall go sit beneath the shade
of a willow that weeps, yet stands tall and strong.
But only I shall think of thee
when in youth our initials we made
on this fair day,
the day you were born.
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