When the tree casts its fruitage, or when flowers,
Blooming through the mild months, all fade away
In their appointed season: Then why weep
For those whose years have passed the destined bourne
Of man’s existence.—Rather let us weep
For the young flower that blossometh and dies,
Ere it hath seen the noon-day. Rather mourn
For those, the sweet and beautiful of earth,
Who die in youth’s bright morning.
Tears for the flowers, and the young buds of hope,