Allan Cunningham.
When spring returns, the little children play,
In the grave-yard of the cathedral grey,
Busy as morning bees, and gather flowers—
Daisies and gold-cups—of the hurrying hours
Thoughtless as unsolicitous, though time
Speeds like a spectre, and their playful prime
Bears on to sorrow. Angel! cry aloud!
Speak of the knell, the grave-worm and the shroud!
No! let them play! for solitude and care