ANEMONE. 



Whence art thou, frailest flower of Spring ? 



Did winds of heaven give thee birth ? 

 Too free, too airy-light a thing 



For any child of earth ! 



O palest of pale blossoms borne 



On timid April s virgin breast, 

 Hast thou no flush of passion worn, 



No mortal bond confessed ? 



Thou mystic spirit of the wood, 



Why that ethereal grace that seems 



A vision of our actual good 



Linked with the land of dreams ? 



Thou didst not start from common ground, 

 So tremulous on thy slender stem ; 



Thy sisters may not clasp thee round 

 Who art not one with them. 



Thy subtle charm is strangely given, 



My fancy will not let thee be, 

 Then poise not thus twixt earth and heaven, 



O white anemone ! 



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