Classic Poem

Gone were but the winter cold,
—And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
—Where primroses blow.

Cold's the snow at my head,
—And cold at my feet;
And the finger of death's at my e'ndash,
—Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father
—Or my mother so dear,—
I'll meet them both in heaven
—At the spring of the year.