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140
THE ACONITE.
An evil gift, this flower of aconite,Born in some drear tempestuous night of March,
When the shrill winds blow from the East, and parch
The horror-stricken earth in their wild flight;
In some dull wood, against the edge of light,
Under the tassels of a wintry larch,
It rose, and gazing on the purple arch
Of moonless heaven, grew lurid at the sight.
Lo! the one hateful thing that from her lap
Lets fall the loose-haired maiden, laughing Spring;
Nay, rather let us deem this baleful thing
No springtide gift, gushing with generous sap,
But Winter's latest insult, by good hap
The last the foul anatomy can fling.
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