With fragrant flowers of May.
Oh, there’s a spell around these blooms
Owned by no rarer flowers;
They blossomed on our soldiers’ tombs
And they shall bloom on ours.
To us, as to our sires, their tone
Breathes forth the same glad strain,
“We spring to life when winter’s gone,
And ye shall rise again.”
Uncultured ’round our path they grow,