And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
Is not thy home among the flowers?
Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.