The tear, down childhood’s cheek that flows, Is like the dewdrop on the rose; When next the summer breeze comes by And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
The tear, down childhood’s cheek that flows, Is like the dewdrop on
The tear, down childhood’s cheek that flows, Is like the dewdrop on the rose; When next the summer breeze comes by And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
