The flow’rs have many a whisper to explain, To those who list to hear the mournful sigh, Of Nature, that still lingers in the lane, And murmurs through the branches swinging by.

With fragrance breath’d from roses, just in bloom, And tears of evening falling, soft and sly, It stirs the passion into thought and gloom, And makes us feel that life must end, or die.

• William Hazlitt