I wish I knew that woman's name,
So, when she comes this way,
To hold my life, and hold my ears,
For fear I hear her say
She's‘ sorry I am dead,’ again,
Just when the grave and I
Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, —
Our only lullaby.
Cookies on Poetry Cove
We use cookies to remember your language preference and — only with your consent — to learn how Poetry Cove is used. You can change your mind any time.