COLD snowdrops which the shrinking new-born year
Sends like the dove from out the storm-tost ark ;
Sweet violets which may not tarry here
Beyond the earliest flutings of the lark ;

Bright celandines which gild the tufted brake
Before the speckled thrush her nest has made ;
Fair frail anemones which star-like shake
And twinkle by each sunny bank and glade ;

Pale primroses wherewith the virgin spring,
As with a garland, wreathes her comely head ;
No eyes have I for you, nor voice to sing.
My love is dead !

For she was young and pure and white as you,
And fairer and more sweet, and ah! as frail.
I dare not give to her the honour due,
Lest, for a strain so high, my voice should fail.

Like you, she knew the springtide's changeful hours ;
Like you, she blossomed ere the coming leaf ;
Like you, she knew not summer's teeming showers ;
Like you, as comely, and, alas ! as brief.

You may not see the roses, nor might she ;
Such swift short beauty is its only fruit ;
So a sweet silence is her eulogy,
And praise is mute.