Could we forget the widow'd hour
⁠And look on Spirits breathed away,
⁠As on a maiden in the day
When first she wears her orange-flower!

When crown'd with blessing she doth rise
⁠To take her latest leave of home,
⁠And hopes and light regrets that come
Make April of her tender eyes;

And doubtful joys the father move,
⁠And tears are on the mother's face,
⁠As parting with a long embrace
She enters other realms of love;

Her office there to rear, to teach,
⁠Becoming as is meet and fit
⁠A link among the days, to knit
The generations each with each;