O passing sweet it were to me
A flowery wreath to offer thee;
But ah! the north wind's stormy blast
Has made my garden all a waste,
And every flower that rear'd its head
Is swept away—has perished.
The storm has swept the flowers away,
The thorns and nettles lingering stay;
But saddest fate of all—too well
I loved the rose, and lo! it fell.
One thought of peace is left—that spring
Some other flowers of hope will bring,
And fate the perish'd good repair,
By dreams as fleeting, but as fair.