And flowers at eve that formed a living wreath,
When morning beameth bright, all drooping lie,
Cast on the ground to waste their fragrant breath,
Or tell their story to the passer-by,
That they, once highly prized, are cast aside to die.
VI.
Man, when he dies, is buried out of sight,
But not forgotten. Few so friendless are,
That some bewail not their untimely blight,
Always untimely. Death can scarce unbar