The bloom upon the branch must die
Before the tree can bear;
It is the truth that wakes the sigh,
And hope that brings despair.

The sun that paints the flower to-day
Will fade the flower to-morrow;
The longest joys will pass away,
And end at last in sorrow.

It is that thought informs the mind
That souls are filled with fear;
It is that nature is unkind
That starts the bitter tear.

The passing air by which we live
Still bears our breath away;
The hand which unto life doth give,
Prepares the bed of clay.

When brighter beams the steady light,
Then darker falls the shade;
The colors most divinely bright
Are still the first to fade.

It is because all ties must part
That farewell words are spoken;
It is the love that fills the heart,
By which the heart is broken.