O! bright hued flowers! how can ye bloom
So very near the cold dark tomb?
O! warbling birds! how can ye sing
Where death is mark’d on every thing?
Sweet flowers! ye speak of Heaven to me;
For bright to all eternity,
“Transplanted flowers” shall bloom above,
Where all the air is full of love.
And birds! ye do not sing in vain,
Ye chant of Heaven in every strain!