Fordham, Mary Weston
How comest thou, O flower so fair,
To bud and bloom while wintry air
Still hovers o'er the land?
How comest from the cold, dark earth?
That fostered thee and gave thee birth,
Studding thy brow with snow.
Say, didst thou yearn for sunny bowers?
To gladden with thy pure, pale flowers,
The valley and the hill?
Down in the darkness whence thou came,
Hear'st aught of passion, fashion, fame,
Or even greed for gold?
And when the old earth's bosom heaves,
And scatters man like autumn's leaves,
With its low thundered voice,
Thou sleep'st serene with eyelids closed,
No earthquake shock breaks thy repose,
Till comes the breath of Spring.