It is too late for violets, I only bring their leaves, I looked in vain for mignonettes To grace the crown grief weaves； For queenly May, upon her way, Robs half the bowers¹ Of all their flowers, And leaves but leaves to June. Ah！ beauty fades so soon； And the valley grows lonely in spite of the sun, For flowerets are fading fast, one by one. Leaves for a grave, leaves for a garland, Leaves for a little flower, gone to the far-land.