Whispering gentle words, as also did the bee,
Who came to gather honey from the lovely flowers
Of the valley meadow, till the cruel mowers
Came, each scythe in hand, to that valley deep,
And cut down the flowers. Weep, weep, oh weep!
Now no more the flowers fill with scent the air,
Now no more the skylark has a young brood there.
Lonely is the willow, by the water’s flow,
Weeping, ever weeping, to the stream below:—
Weeping, ever weeping, like a thing forlorn—