Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the brier’s boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are– Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of
Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the brier’s boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are– Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
