The roses all are dead
And the lilacs are no more;
The cowslips, too, have fled
Yet the summer is not o'er,
Wherefore, wherefore, know not I
Wherefore, wherefore, should I sigh?
The daisies too are gone
All so early in the year;
Of tulips there are none
Tho' the summer still is here;
Wherefore, wherefore, why complain?
Wherefore, wherefore, all in vain?

3.

And thus is life's own day,
'Ere the morn of youth is gone;
Our friends have passed away —
We have lost them, one by one;
Wherefore, wherefore, should I weep?
Wherefore, wherefore, sweet their sleep!