But we mourn not the Spring which departs,
For the husbandman Fate, in his sowing,
Scattered love in the soil of our hearts.
The sunshine of virtue and beauty
Shall wake the sweet seedlings to bloom;
The warm dews of mercy and duty
Shall moisten the tractable loam.
Oh, blow, grains of love to the binding!
Oh, blush, golden fruit on the hill!
'Tis a dreary, long day to the grinding,