The meadows gay with flowers,
The summer’s leafy bowers,
Will know thy joyous smile no more; the woodlands stand forlorn;
I hear the soft complaining
Of birds, from mirth refraining.
That greeted with their carols sweet thy waking every morn.
Poor mother! hush thy weeping
Above thy darling sleeping,
Nor fret with aught of earthly grief the stillness where he lies,
Flowers in his little fingers,