The bloom is falling from the May,
The rose, the rose is on the way!
Now let us think before she blows
What we may do to greet the rose.
We'll lie beneath the aspen trees
And gaze upon her all day long,
And gaze and gaze, but never speak
What may not be uplift in song.
And all our song shall be of love,
The fainter for her passing breath.
But, O take heed! Before the rose
We must not breathe a word of death.