We might not lay her 'mid the flowers,
For all the flowers were dead.
The youngest birdling of our nest,
Her song from us hath fled;
Yet mingles with a purer strain
That floats above our head.
We gaze,—her wings we may not see:
We listen,—all in vain:
But when this wintry life is o'er,
We'll hear her voice again.