Then lays the dying head so gently down
Upon its bosom, while the trembling depth
Reflects with sympathy the blighted gem,
And murmurs promise of another life,
And blest re-union at return of spring.
No young fawns gambol through the silent wood,
In the delight of life’s first consciousness
Of freedom, strength, and beauty. No fair child
Crushes the sweet buds with its little feet,
While bounding after the bright butterfly