Black, leafless thorn, that once hast borne the rose,
Long is the year, but short the time of flowers;
Dreams the sad life that hides beneath the snows
Of joys that sped those all too-fleeting hours,
When sunbeams kissed your roses lips apart,
When sighs still hovered near, and healing dew
Stole in where love had laid too bare the heart,
And all things seemed more glad and sweet for you?
Gone is the gracious morn that knew no morrow,
Long seems the winter day, long is the night;
And yet who would not brave the life-long sorrow
That expiates such moments of delight!