Song

In June, when the rose-buds
Are ready to blow,
We love something in them

Far more than we know.
When we look on a baby,

We love what we see —
We love what it may be,
And hope it will be.
But my love, sweet Mary,

For thee, as I know.
Is a rose-bud untimely

That never will blow.
My love is a baby.

No blessing will crave,
But come, love, however.
And smile on its grave.