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When some fair young flower fadeth
In the quiet woodland shade,
Or the buds we've nursed and tended
In their gentle beauty fade,
Then we sigh in pensive sorrow
O'er the sweets so early lost,
Sad that anything so lovely
Could be blighted by the frost.

 

When we see an old tree dying
Slowly in the solemn wood,
To decay the proud strength yielding
That a century has stood,
We look on, and sadly wonder
At the mighty wreck of time,
As its potent finger traces
Sure destruction, line by line.

 

But when some proud forest monarch,
Lifting its great arms to heaven,
As if conscious of its greatness
By a sudden bolt is riven,
Then we stand in breathless silence
Where the shattered ruin lies,
Watching with almost a shudder
As its massive verdure dies.

 

Thus, when gentle human flowers
Pass away, we gently weep;
And we mourn when old age closes
Time-dimmed eyes in dreamless sleep;
But when death, like sudden darkness,
Falls on manhood's early light,
Then we stand and vainly question
Why the noontide's quenched in night.

 

Yes, we wildly, madly question,
But out own impatient "Why?"
With an ever-mocking echo
Comes alone as our reply.
And the heart beats on in anguish,
Years of woe in every throb,
Till our all in conscious weakness
We have rendered back to God.