The Snowdrop is the prophet of the flowers;_
It lives and dies upon its bed of snows;_
And like a thought of spring it comes and goes,_
Hanging its head beside our leafless bowers._
The sun's betrothing kiss it never knows,_
Nor all the glowing joy of golden showers;_
But ever in a placid, pure repose,_
More like a spirit with its look serene,_
Droops its pale cheek veined thro' with infant green._
Queen of her sisters is the sweet Wild Rose,_
Sprung from the earnest sun and ripe young June;_
The year's own darling and the Summer's Queen!_
Lustrous as the new-throned crescent moon._
Much of that early prophet look she shows,_
Mixed with her fair espoused blush which glows,_
As if the ethereal fairy blood were seen;_
Like a soft evening over sunset snows,_
Half twilight violet shade, half crimson sheen._
Twin-born are both in beauteousness, most fair_
In all that glads the eye and charms the air;_
In all that wakes emotions in the mind_
And sows sweet sympathies for human kind.
Science fiction & fantasy