Here she comes o’er top the hill,
robed in dewy, beauty white.
Seeing her, it is a thrill,
she’s always such a pretty sight . . .

And when she comes,
we mark the clock;
beneath her glow,
in whispers talk.

And wish we that
she wouldn’t leave,
but stay with us
just one more eve.

But on she goes,
and there she’s gone.
And we, alone,
at break of dawn.

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Image: Pinterest

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