Now green comes springing o’er the heath,

And each small bird with lifted breath at

Cries, “Brother, consider the joy there is in living!”

“Consider! consider!” the jolly throstle saith.

The golden gorse, the wild thyme, frail

And sweet, the butter cowslip pale,

Cry “Sisters, consider the peace that comes with giving!

And render, and render your sweet and scented breath!”

Now men, come walking o’er the heath

To mark this pretty world beneath,

Bethink them: “Consider what joy might lie in living,

None striving, constraining none, and thinking not on Death.”