There 'S a new grave in the old churchyard,
Another mound in the snow,
And a maid whose soul is whiter far
Sleeps in her shroud below!

The winds of March are piping loud,
The snow comes down for hours;
But by and by the April rain
Will bring the sweet May flowers.

The sweet May flowers will deck the mound
Greened in the April rain; —
But blight will lie on our memories,
And our tears will fall in vain!