THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS 
THE SNOWDROP. 
CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
Like pendant flakes of vegetating snow, 
The early herald of the infant year, 
Ere yet the adventurous crocus dares to blow, 
Beneath the orchard boughs thy buds appear. 
While still the cold north-east ungenial lowers, 
And scarce the hazel in the leafless copse 
Or shallows show their downy powdered flowers, 
The grass is spangled with thy silver drops. 
Yet when those pallid blossoms shall give place 
To countless tribes of richer hue and scent, 
Summer’s gay blooms, and autumn’s yellow race, 
I shall thy pale inodorous bells lament. 
SNOWDROPS. 
“dove on the cross.” 
My snowdrops, oh, my snowdrops! 
How gaily every spring 
They covered all our mossy banks 
With many a fairy ring ! 
How delicately beautiful 
Their little blossoms were, 
Like tiny spirits hovering 
Upon the chilly air. 
My snowdrops, oh, my snowdrops ! 
I shall never without pain 
See your little fragile blossoms 
In the early spring again; 
