Thou inclinest to earth, though no shrive-priest be there,
Pale, innocent darling! would we were as pure,
Then ours the blessings that ever endure.
Gaze not downward so sadly, still bloom on thy stem,
Thou Nature's adornment! sweet, pearly-hued gem!
The fibre that links thee to life, ah! how slight!
The dealings of Death with the flowers are light;
The delicate tintings that vein thy array
Must be changed ere the scene dons its mantle of gray,
And heavenly ones thy aroma will bear