158 LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
THE SNOWDROP. 
“Once more I see thee bend 
Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, 
Like an unbidden guest.”— Wordsworth. 
As Hope, with bowed head, silent stood, 
And on her golden anchor leant, 
Watching below the angry flood, 
While Winter, ’mid the dreariment 
Half-buried in the drifted snow, 
Lay sleeping on the frozen ground, 
Not heeding how the wind did blow, 
Bitter and bleak on all around, 
She gazed on Spring, who at her feet 
Was looking on the snow and sleet. 
Spring sighed, and through the driving gale 
Her warm breath caught the falling snow, 
And from the flakes a flower as pale 
Did into spotless whiteness blow ; 
Hope smiling saw the blossom fall, 
And watched its root strike in the earth,— 
“ I will that flower the Snowdrop call,” 
Said Hope, “ in memory of its birth : 
And through all ages it shall be 
In reverence held, for love of me." 
