If flowers that bloom no more are here,
Their odors still around us cling—
And though the loved are lost-still dear,
Their memories may wake the string.
I strike—but lo, the wonted thrill,
Of joy in sorrowing cadence dies:
Alas! the minstrel's hand is chill,
And the sad lute, responsive, sighs.
'Tis ever thus—our life begins,
In Eden, and all fruit seems sweet—