The young leaf lives in Spring its little hour,
And falleth from the limb—who knoweth why?
The fair young bud blooms not into a flower,
But sickening droops and hasteneth to die.
Who knoweth why?
Our Father knows, from whom the bud and leaf
Received their life, so beautiful and brief.

Those loved by us,—the young, fair, innocent,—
When like your dear ones they have grown more dear,
For but a little season to us lent,
He calleth home, letting us live on here—
Who knoweth why?
They in the early morning of Life's day
Do fade and fade, while we grow old and gray.

Our Father knows. He knew they did not need
Life's discipline and Sorrow's chastening pain
To make them fit for Heaven, and early freed
These pure white souls to Him returned again,
For us to intercede.
Thus we, amid Life's sorrows, toils and cares,
Have entertained His angels unawares.