The snow-drops sword-like pierce the lagging snows,
The Winter dies with blessings on the Spring,
The violet sweet, which Love himself well knows,
Is lost with Summer blue-bells welcoming;
And when dear hand extends to reach the brier,
(Clear type of love, with flower and scent and sting)
The white and blue are melted in that fire
To which the world is duly minist'ring,
By sacred home and altar day and night:—
Our smallest thoughts are writ in silent verse,
Upon the eyes of each, with heaven for light;
Nor can we weary whilst we these rehearse,
And though the flowers have passed to one red leaf,
Love's summer lingers long, its snows are brief.