The young flowers are blowing toward the west;

But the young, young children, O, my brothers!

They are weeping bitterly.

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,

In the country of the free.

......

“‘True,’ say the children, ‘it may happen

That we die before our time;

Little Alice died last year; her grave is shapen

Like a snowball in the rime.