NEVER a leaf is shorn
But the vine surely misses;
From ministering night-dews torn,
From the sun's kisses.

Dozing the warm light in,
In cool winds rustling greenly —
A leaflet with its leafy kin
Dwelling serenely.

Not ever bud doth fall
With blighted leaves yet folden —
Never to wear its coronal
Or white or golden —

But from the mother - stem
Flutters a far, faint sighing:
Is it a tender requiem
Above the dying?

Who knows what dear regrets
Cling to the blossom broken?
Who knows what voiceless longing frets,
What love unspoken.

So through the summer - shine,
Your frail, brief lives securely
Keep, all ye tender blossoms mine,
Looking up purely.

Enough to breathe the air
Made sweet with your perfuming;
To see through golden days your fair
And perfect blooming:

The bees that round you hum,
The butterflies that woo you—
And happy, happy birds that come
And sing unto you.