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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
TO THE SNOW-DROP. 
BY KEBLE. 
Tov first-born of the years’ delight, 
Pride of the dewy glade, 
Fn vernal green and virgin white, 
Thy vestal robes, array’d: 
*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 listen soon 
As green and bright ag they. 


