Bursting, have flung their freshness o’er the earth,
And all its brightest flowers have waked to birth
The perfume in their petals slumbering;—
The bright green leaves of Summer’s garnishing
Have blanched away;—the wild bird’s song of mirth
Is hushed into an echo, and his wing
Chill’d by the breath the north wind scatters forth:—
And yet the loved one is not with us, yet
He lingers in some foreign beauty’s bower,
While we the lonely, we in vain regret