WITHER AWAY.
I
Wither away, green leaves,
Wither away, sweet flowers!
For me in vain young Spring has thrown
Her mantle o'er the bowers.
Sing not to me, gay birds,
Borne in bright plumage hither;
The heart recoils from pleasure's voice
When all its fond hopes wither!
Wither away! Wither away!
II
Wither away, my friends,
Whom I have loved sincerely:
'Tis hard to sigh for the silent tomb,
As a place of rest, so early!
While others prize the rose,
The cypress wreath I'll gather;
The heart recoils from pleasure's voice,
When all its fond hopes wither!
Wither away! Wither away!