Though the same wind now blows around,
⁠You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
⁠Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
⁠That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
⁠When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
⁠When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
⁠When Sorrow bids us weep!

The dearest hands that clasp our hands,—
⁠Their pressure may be o'er:
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
⁠That tone may come no more!