GRAND'MÈRE
Grand'mère! Grand'mère! Is't you would sleep, Grand'mère?
No, Eunice, 'tis that I would wake—Thousands of morns at dawning-timeThe little wind has wakened meThat wakes the sleeping dawn,—The tender little sigh of joy, the herald of the sun,The soft caressing voice that makes theWorld so dear,—Like all the little sobbing things that make the Earth so dear.What is it calling low and clear? Go, Eunice, go and see.
Grand'mère! Grand'mère! Why are you sad, Grand'mère?
What makes me sad, you ask?Because the little wind I may not hear.Thousands of morns at dawning-time
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