How like the morning flower ye are!
Which lifts its diamond head,
Exulting in the mead;
But the rude wind shall steal its gem,
Shall break its tender stem,
And leave it dead.
Frail pledges of the contrite heart,
Wherefore so soon decay?
O, yet prolong your stay!
Until my soul shall boldly rise,
And claim its native skies,
Haste not away.