In the Silent, the Silent November

IN the silent, the silent November
You were born, ere the snow-shrouded hours.
That day — ah, how well I remember! —
In the garden were blooming late flowers.

The summer for you had waited ;
I thought you its loveliest child;
With sunlight your heart was freighted,
And buds seemed to blow when you smiled.

But strangely, O child, it was fated
You could not delay for the flowers
Whose petals your sweet life had dated:
You died with the snow-shrouded hours.