Deep murm’ring in reproach,
Thy sad untimely fate.
Ere those dear eyes had open’d to the light,
In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold,
O waken’d but to sleep,
Whence it can wake no more!
A thousand and a thousand silken leaves
The tufted beech unfolds in early spring,
All clad in tenderest green,
All of the self-same shape;