By cool Siloam's shady rill
How sweet the lily grows!
First Sunday after Epiphany. No. ii.
When Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil.
Seventh Sunday after Trinity.
Death rides on every passing breeze,
He lurks in every flower.
At a Funeral. No. i.
Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb.