In those still, untrodden solitudes
Its lovely days are passed;
And the sunny turf is its fragrant bier
When it gently dies at last.
But if from its own sweet dwelling-place
By a careless hand 'tis torn,
And to hot and dusty city streets
In its drooping beauty borne,
Its graceful head is with sorrow bowed,
And it quickly pines and fades;