Farewell, ye withered flowers, 

 That on the cold ground lie ; 



How gay ye smiled 



'Mid the brown wild 

 'Neath summer's painted sky. 



Passed hath your bloom away, 

 Your stalks are sere and bent ; 



On the howling blast 



The rain sweeps past 

 From the dim firmament. 



I think me of your pride 



When zephyrs come with spring ; 



Then sigh to know 



What wreck and woe 

 A few brief months may bring. 



MOIR 



