A Child sleeps under a rose-bush fair, The buds swell out in the soft May air; Sweetly it rests, and on dream-wings flies To play with the angels in Paradise. And the years glide by. A Maiden stands by the rose-bush fair, The dewy blossoms perfume the air; She presses her hand to her throbbing breast, With love's first wonderful rapture blest. And the years glide by. A Mother kneels by the rose-bush fair, Soft sigh the leaves in the evening air; Sorrowing thoughts of the past arise, And tears of anguish bedim her eyes. And the years glide by. Naked and lone stands the rose-bush fair, Whirled are the leaves in the autumn air, Withered and dead they fall to the ground, And silently cover a new-made mound. And the years glide by. |