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1. In a cold and cheerless garret, in a room so dim, so lone,
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in a frosty wintry silence there was heard a little moan.
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And a little child is asking at the break of the day :
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“Will the roses bloom in heaven, tell me, mama, tell me, pray !”
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Will the roses bloom in heaven, are there any gardens there,
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any violets and clover, way up with the angels fair ?
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Will the branches fill with blossoms and in winter fill with snow ?
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Will the roses bloom in heaven ? Tell me, mama, e'er I go.
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2. Now the room grows light and lighter, everything has caught a glow,
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Heaven seems to stretch about her while dream faces come and go.
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Then she whispered,” Birds are singing Psalms of melody,
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and I see the roses blooming while the angels beckon me.”
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3. Then mother whispered, “In the land so bright and fair,
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where the roses will be blooming, there will be no parting there.”
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Goodbye, my little darling, for death is lingering near,
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and on the little pale face there was not one trace of fear.
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