Classic Poem

When violets scent the woodland ways,
And kingcups gild the meadow grass;
When thorns with blossom are all ablaze,
And sweeten the winds that through them pass;
Merrily singing we pass the days,
Fill the woods with our joyous lays;
Wreathe the flowers,
Build us bowers,
Long and sweet is this life of ours.

When gorse has fired the barren hill,
And the roses blush at the kiss of the sun,
And minnows sport in the shallow rill,
And vines are ripening every one;
Not so sweet, so clear, is our song;
Yet we chorus it loud and long;
Garlands twine,
Drain the wine,
Joy is for ever and life divine.

When rustling leaves that once were green
Sad burdens whisper 'neath our feet;
When never a bird or flower is seen,
And wild winds at the casement beat;
Our voices have gotten a mournful tone,
Our singing is turned to sob and moan;
Joy is dead,
Hope has fled,
Graves have rest for the weary head.

When naked trees, through mist that shrouds
Their shivering outstretched arms, do grope,
When light scarce pierces murky clouds,
And life seems vanished past all hope,
Peacefully waiting then we lie,
For endless pleasure and youth draw nigh:
Church bells toll
Rest to the soul
That reachest at length the wished-for goal.