A child sleeps under a rose-bush fair,
The buds swell out in the soft May air;
Sweetly it rests, and on dream-wings flies
To play with the angels in Paradise.
And the years glide by.

A maiden stands by the rose-bush fair.
The dewy blossoms perfume the air.
She presses her hand to her throbbing breast,
With love's first wonderful rapture blest:
And the years glide by.

A Mother kneels by the rose-bush fair,
Soft sigh the leaves in the evening air.
Sorrowing thoughts of the past arise,
And tears of anquish bedim her eyes.
And the years glide by.

Naked and lone stands the rose-bush fair,
Whirl'd are the leaves in the autumn air,
Wither'd and dead and dead they fall to the ground,
And silently cover a new-made mound:
And the years glide by.