The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter,
There is no sorrow in the wind’s low tone.
And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss’d.
Cradled ye were, fair flowers! ’midst all things loving,
A joy to all—yet, yet, ye are not miss’d!
Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness,
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list,
Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness,
To say earth’s human flowers not more are miss’d.