A winter sleet has fallen upon the buds of June;
The ice-winds blow where yesterday zephyrs disported:
Life is not consummated
The rose has not blossomed, the fruit has perished in the flower,
The bird lies frozen under its mother's breast
Youth sleeps in round loveliness when age should lie withered and weary, and full of honor.
Then the grave would be welcome, and our tears would fall not.
The grave is not for the roses of youth;
We mourn the early departed.
Youth sleeps without dreams—