WHERE the hare-bells are ringing Their peal of sunny flowers, And a bird of merry soul Sings away the birthday hours Of the valley-lily low, Opening, dewily and slow, Petals, dear to young and fair For the prophecy they bear Of the coming roses— The free bold bird of merry soul Amidst his leaves cannot control His triumphant love of spring. Thou bird of joyous soul, Why can'st thou not control Thy triumphant love of spring? I know that thou dost rally Thy spirit proud to sing, Because to-day is born The lily of the valley. Oh! rather should'st thou mourn; For that flower so meek and low, Born with its own death-bell, Only cometh to foretell Unpitying winter's doom, Who in scorn doth lay it low In the tomb. Vain is all its prayer, It may flatter, as it will, The ungentle hours With its ring of toying flowers; Unrelenting they must kill With their scornful breath, For the very petals fair, Which the destined flower uncloses In its innocence, To plead for its defence, By the prophecy they bear Of the coming roses, Sign the warrant for its death. |