Is it when spring’s first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our path grow pale?
They have one season—all are ours to die!
Thou art where billows foam—
Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth to meet thee there.
Thou art where friend meets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm, at rest;