Under The Linden Branches They Sit And Whisper; Hardly A Quiver Of Leaves, Hardly A Lisp Or Sigh In The Air. Under The Linden Branches They Sit, And Shiver At The Slow Air'S Fingers Drawn Through The Linden Branches Where The Year'S Sweet Lingers; And Sudden Avalanches Of Memories, Fears, Shake From The Linden Branches Upon Them Sitting With Hardly A Sigh Or A Whisper Or Quiver Of Tears.