My death gasp, I scarcely could grieve
To die in the Autumn, when leaves come down;
When the shadows are gone from the wilderness brown,
When the flowret droops, and the glories that crown
The hill-top, like hopes that deceive:
But to die in Spring,—the joyous Spring!
The dear young year, when Hope hath a wing!
To die amid blossoms,—the season’s sweet prime;
To go ere the summer; to fade in the time
When Earth waketh up at the Easter-bell’s chime,