To shield a flower, there it dies:
Away the withered thing I throw,
And sadly on my way I go.
An infant in its cradle smiled—
Its look of joy my heart beguiled;
But, when I gazed a moment more,
Its joyous brow was clouded o’er;
Then, sick at heart, I heav’d a sigh,
And turn’d away my tearful eye;
How vain the search for pleasure here!