And thou mad’st love unto the virgin flowers,
Sighing through green trees and by mossy springs.
Now on the earth’s cold bed,
Fallen and faded, waste their forms away,
And all around the withered leaves are shed,
Mementos mute of Nature’s wide decay.
Vain is the breath of morn;
Vainly the night-dews on their couches weep;
In vain thou call’st them at thy soft return,
No more awaking from their gloomy sleep.