Do they fall for cures before us—
Is’t for this your bosom grieves?
Angel tokens—flower fancies—
Winter’s breath is on ye now
And your perfumed leaves are falling
Crisped and shriveled from the bough—
Yet when spring, with winter striving,
O’er the earth asserts her reign,
With her smile your buds reviving,
Ye will blossom bright again!