Blossoms meet to mourn the dead
On each season's grave are spread.
Lilies white and roses red
O'er dead Spring are canopied;
Roses in their latest bloom
Blazon golden Summer's tomb;
Stealthy showers of petals fall
At still Autumn's funeral
But the darlings of the year
Strew rude Winter's sepulchre.
Scarce a flower does Winter own.
Of four seasons he alone
Scarce a bud does to him take.
Barren for the future's sake,
Well content to none possess.
And sweet violets — faithfulness —
And white snowdrops — innocence —
Are in death his recompense.
And these darlings of the year
Strew rude Winter's sepulchre.