H. C. Bunner - Dead in Bohemia lyrics

Small was thy share of all this world's delight And scant thy poet's crown of flowers of praise; Yet ever catches quaint of quaint old days Thou sang'st, and, singing, kept thy spirit bright Even as to lips the winds of winter bite Some outcast wanderer sets his flute and plays Till at his feet blossom the icy ways, And from the snowdrift's bitter wasting white He hears the uprising carol of the lark, Soaring from clover seas with summer ripe-- While freeze upon his cheek glad, foolish tears. Ah! let us hope that somewhere in thy dark, Herrick's full note, and s**ling's pleasant pipe, Are sounding still their solace in thine ears.