Grass of the field! the morning sun 
Shines on thy verdure fair; 
But, ere his daily course is run, 
He’ll scorch thy golden hair. 
In warning tone the Psalmist says, 
“Ail living flesh is grass; ” 
But ah ! with ever-heedless gaze 
Mortals their emblem pass. 
Youth, thoughtless of impending doom, 
Rejoicing in the morn, 
Forgets that evening’s houx of gloom 
Must see his beauty shom. 
And even when that hour is corne 
Man tums his thoughts away. 
And sinks into his last long home, 
Forgetting he is clay. 
But we will twine within our wreath 
These flow’rets of the sod — 
To tell us still of “change and death,” 
The message of our God ! 
I, 
