We romp upon the earth our little hours,
And do not stop to study all the flowers;
For some are parched by summer’s languid light
And others paled by autumn’s moonlit night.
The rest then by the unforgiving winter
Decease and show their stems and leaves to splinter.
But soon the ice that covers everything
Will crack and thaw and weep into the spring,
And spring will sing the coming of the flowers,
And we will pause to muse upon the hours,
And grieve and idle on the misty rocks,
And mind the meadow as it softly talks.
Then in the vernal chorus will we hear
The notes of love we knew were always there.