POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
89 
And the bee comes not forth from its winter cell 
To quaff the dew from thy golden bell. 
Too soon—too soon thou hast opened up 
The nectar stores in thy treasure-cup ; 
There are none to welcome thine early bloom, 
Or breathe the breath of thy rich perfume. 
The hoar-frost lies on the ground like gems, 
The birds are mute on the naked stems, 
And thy pale and starlike blossoms gleam 
On the cheerless hanks of a frozen stream. 
But soon a change on the earth shall he, 
And leaf and blossom shall clothe the tree, 
And the wild-bird merrily blend its song 
"With the streamlet’s voice as it floats along. 
And thou art sent with thy sunny smile 
To cheer this desolate scene awhile! 
And waft our visions and thoughts away, 
To the glorious light of a Summer day! 
TO A PRIMROSE IN A CHURCHYARD, 
rv. 
Sweet exile of the hills ! 
What dost thou here ? 
Far from thy native rills 
And fountains clear! 
