Its thoughts by day, its dawn by night.
The chill winds came, the young flower faded
And died; the grave its sweetness shaded.
Fair boy, thou should’st have wept for me;
Nor I have had to mourn o’er thee:
Yet not long may this sorrow be.
Those roses I have planted round,
To deck the dear, sad, sacred ground,
When spring-gales next their leaves shall wave,
May blush upon thy mother’s grave.”