In green fields where the winding stream,
Murmuring passes,
Reflected in the sunlight beam,
Midst fragrant grasses,
Dear little flow'r, thou buddest bright,
So sweetly blooming
Loading the breezes of the night,
With thy perfuming,
When the pale moon, at close of day,
Mildly is beaming,
She sheds her softest silver ray,
With beauty teeming,
Chaste bud on thee, hiding secure,
From each one's glances,
Yet thy rare odor still entrances,
Sweet and pure.

The earliest zephyr of the year,
Calls thee to being;
Amid fall winds thou still art near,
When birds are fleeing;
And when the soul from pallid cot,
Its flight is winging,
Thou cheerest suffering's hard lot,
Kind comfort bringing.
When our tears fall upon thy leaf,
In tribulation;
In thee the heart oppress'd by grief,
Finds consolation.
And when with life's approaching doom
Thy blush is paling;
Thy parting sigh, in death exhaling,
Breathes perfume.