And paled and withered ’neath the world’s rude frown.
But hope seems vain, for round me sleep the dead,
Who quaffed their pleasures, and at last laid down,
While all the aims and sweets of life have fled,
And twining grass is now their mournful crown.
Yet there is something soothing in the air;
The thrush sings softly as it flits along;
The towering trees shut out the sun’s bold glare,
And round my temples breathes the wind’s low song:
A katy-did chirps on a marble urn,