O happy rose-bud blooming

Upon thy parent tree,—

Nay, thou art too presuming;

For soon the earth entombing

Thy faded charms shall be,

And the chill damp consuming.

O happy skylark springing

Up to the broad blue sky,

Too fearless in thy winging,

Too gladsome in thy singing,

Thou also soon shalt lie

Where no sweet notes are ringing.

And through life’s shine and shower

We shall have joy and pain;

But in the summer bower,

And at the morning hour,

We still shall look in vain

For the same bird and flower.