70 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Ah! —some lie amid the dead, 
(Many a giant stubborn tree,— 
Many a plant, its spirits shed,) 
That were better nursed than thee ’ 
What hath shved thee ? Thou wast not 
’Gainst the arrowy winter furr’d,— 
Arm’d in scale—but all forgot 
When the frozen winds were stirr’d. 
Nature, who doth clothe the bird, 
Should have hid thee in the earth, 
Till the cuckoo’s song was heard, 
And the Spring let loose her mirth. 
Nature—deep and mystic word, 
Mighty mother, still unknown ! 
Thou didst sure the Snow-drop gird 
With an armour all thine own ! 
Thou, who sent’st it forth alone 
To the cold and sullen season, 
(Like a thought at random thrown,) 
Sent it thus for some grave reason! 
If’twere but to pierce the mind 
With a single gentle thought, 
Who shall deem thee harsh or blind? 
Who that thou hast vainly wrought L 
Hoard the gentle virtue caught 
From the Snow-drop—reader wise ! 
Good is good, wherever taught, 
On the ground or in the skies 1 
