The Poetry of Flowers. 
I 3 I 
TO THE SNOWDROP. 
BY 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. 
They twinkle to the wintry moon, 
And cheer the ungenial day, 
And tell us all will glisten soon 
As green and bright as they. 
Is there a heart that loves the Spring, 
Their witness can refuse ; 
Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring 
From heaven their Easter news : 
When holy maids and matrons speak 
Of Christ’s forsaken bed, 
And voices, that forbid to seek 
The living ’mid the dead ; 
