“But the sun, in his strength yet returning,
The fair-freshened woods will espy,
In the springtime that laugh for their mourning,
As they look on the Son of the sky,
Kindly unveilling his lustre,
Through the soft and the drizzling shower,
All their wan heads again will he muster,
From their drear and their wintry bower.
“Then with joy will their small buds keep swelling;
Not so they who sleep in the tomb—