LIKE April snow upon the springing grass,
So on the youthful heart doth sorrow fall;
Housed in the bud, the bloom still waits, and all
The hope-illumined shadows swiftly pass.

And like the scorching wind, when summer's fire
Preys on the sap-fed leaf — so sorrow burns
The lusty life of manhood's tree — that spurns
The withering blight and lifts his branches higher.

But like the winter's unrelenting sleet
Which cuts the last leaves from some dying tree;
So sorrow smites, when age hath come, to be
Its own worst grief: — Then is the wreck complete.