O little shepherd boy, what sobs are those
That shake your slender shoulders, what despair
Has run her fingers through your rumpled hair,
And laid you prone beneath a weight of woes?
The trees upon the hill will soon be bare,
A yellow blight is on the garden close,
But you, you need not mourn the vanished rose,
For many springs will find you just as fair.

Weep not for summer, she is past all weeping,
Fear not the winter, she in turn will pass,
And with the spring love waits for you, perchance,
When, with the morn, faint wings stir from their sleeping,
And the first petals scatter on the grass,
Under the orchards and the vines of France.

Recicourt