Sweet Child

Sweet child, that wast my bird by day,

My bird that never failed in song;

That on my bosom wast a bee,

And layst there all night long:

No more I’ll hear thy voice at noon,

For Death has pierced thee with a thorn;

No more thou’lt sleep upon my breast,

And trample it at morn.

Then break, oh break, poor empty cage,

The bird is dead, thy use is done;

And die, poor plant, for your sweet bee

Is gone, forever gone.