When he who sheds them inly feels
Some lingering strain of early years
Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth and never rise;
While tears that from repentance flow,
In bright exhalement reach the skies.
Leave me to sigh o’er hours that flew
More idly then the summer’s wind;
And while they pass’d a fragrance threw,