A thousand buds are breaking Their prisons silently; A thousand birds are making Their nests in leafy tree; A thousand babes are waking On woman's breast to-day; . . . . Is born to man, to-day Beneath the sun of May: Whence come ye, babes of flowers, and, Children, whence come ye? The snow falls by thousands into the sea; A thousand blossoms covers The forsaken forest, And on its branches hovers The lark's song thousandfold; And maidens hear from lovers A thousand secrets guessed In June's abundant breast Before and yet are blessed -- Whence, blossoms rich, birds bold, beloved maidens, whence come ye? The snow falls by thousands into the sea; A thousand flowers are shedding Their leaves all dead and dry; A thousand birds are threading Their passage through the sky; A thousand mourners treading The tearful churchyard way In funeral array: Birds, whither fly ye? -- whither, dead, pass ye? The snow falls by thousands into the sea. |