The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying

And Kind The Voice And Glad The Eyes That Welcome My Return At Night.

Pain Dies Quickly, And Lets Her Weary Prisoners Go; The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign.

The February Sunshine Steeps Your Boughs And Tints The Buds And Swells The Leaves Within.

Or, Bide Thou Where The Poppy Blows With Windflowers Fail And Fair.

Earth, That Nourished Thee, Shall Claim Thy Growth, To Be Resolved To Earth Again, And, Lost Each Human Trace, Surrendering Up Thine Individual Being, Shalt Thou Go To Mix Forever With The Elements, To Be A Brother To The Insensible Rock And To The Sluggish Clod, Which The Rude Swain Turns With His Share, And Treads Upon. The Oak Shall Send His Roots Abroad, And Pierce Thy Mold.