Authors:
  • So Spring comes merry towards me here, but earns
    No answering smile from me, whose life is twin'd
    With the dead boughs that winter still must bind,
    And whom today the Spring no more concerns.
    Behold, this crocus is a withering flame;
    This snowdrop, snow; this apple-blossom's part
    To breed the fruit that breeds the serpent's art.
    Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them,
    Nor stay till on the year's last lily-stem
    The white cup shrivels round the golden heart.