Song. The Fallen Leaves.

The bride, she wears a white, white rose—the plucking it was mine; The poet wears a laurel wreath—and I the laurel twine; And oh, the child, your little child, that's clinging close to you, It laughs to wear my violets—they are so sweet and blue! And I, I have a wreath to wear—ah, never rue nor thorn! I sometimes think that bitter wreath could be more sweetly worn! For mine is made of ghostly bloom, of what I can't forget— The fallen leaves of other crowns—rose, laurel, violet!