| It’s only a rose from my mother’s grave
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| That I’d planted long long ago
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| I pulled it from a stem, where it used to wave
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| With a windward soft and low
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| It’s only a flower white and so fair
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| That she used to love so well
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| Sweet were the perfume that filled the air
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| Round her grave down in the dell
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| It’s only a rose, a fragrant white rose
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| That bloomed on my mother’s grave
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| Peace to her soul and blessed reposed
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| With a bright rose above her way
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| Only a rose from my mother’s grave
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| A flower she loved when here
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| I shall press it away in a book and save
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| Bloom will never end in years
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| For mother was like this snow white rose
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| Gentle at heart and lovely too
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| Soon came the twilight with repose
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| Angels made her bed and knew
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| Only a rose from my mother’s grave
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| Kissed by dew from heaven up above
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| Over her form it used to wave
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| In its tenderness and love
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| Only a rose, but through the years
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| We’ve been in some hollow shrine
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| Often our eyes will fill with tears
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| Gazing on this flower divine |