SNOWDROP. 
The same—and to his heart it brings 
The freshness of those vanished springs ! 
Bloom then, fair flower, in sun and shade, 
For deep thought in thy cup is laid; 
And careless children, in their glee, 
A sacred memory make of thee ! 
TO THE SNOWDROP. 
KEBLE. 
Thou first-born of the year’s delight, 
Pride of the dewy glade, 
In vernal green and virgin white, 
Thy vestal robes arrayed : 
’Tis not because thy drooping form 
Sinks grateful on its nest, 
When chilly shades from gathering storm 
Affright thy tender breast; 
Nor from yon river islet wild, 
Beneath the willow spray, 
Where like the ringlets of a child, 
Thou wear’st thy circle gay; 
’Tis not for these I love thee dear,— 
Thy shy averted smiles 
To fancy bode a joyous year, 
One of life’s fairy isles. 
