SONNET VII. To a Snow-Drop.
Sighing I pluck thee, earliest child of spring!
And place thy simple flow'ret near my breast,
Thinking thy snowy lustre still may bring
Feelings, tho' somewhat mournful, not unblest.
Scarce twelve frail months on Times' cold wing have sped,
Since pacing, all elate, life's upward slope,
I snatch'd a bud like thine, and fondly said,
“This is the little harbinger of hope!”
Now when I mark thee peeping as I walk,
I think thee fair as ever, but more frail;
And when thou droopest on thy slender stalk,
I weep that even so my joys should fail.
Then come, pale bud, and let me breathe a sigh,
To fan the emblem of delights—that die!
