He shall not hear the bittern cry
In the wild sky, where he is lain
Nor voices of the sweeter birds
Above the wailing of the rain

Nor shall he know when loud March blows
Thro' slanting snows his fanfare shrill
Blowing to flame the golden cup
Of many's the upset daffodil

Soon the swallows will be flying south
The winds wheel north to gather in the snow
Even the roses split on youth's red mouth
Will soon blow down the road all roses go

But when the dark cow leaves the moor
And pastures poor with greedy weeds
Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn
Lifting her horn in pleasant meads

Soon the swallows will be flying south
The winds wheel north to gather in the snow
Even the roses split on youth's red mouth
Will soon blow down the road all roses go