TO THE COMING FLOWERS.
AWAKE, dear sleepers, from your wintry tombs;
The sun has turned the point of Capricorn,
And 'gins to pluck from winter's wings the plumes
Of darkness, and to wind his silver horn
For your return. Come to your homes, forlorn
In absence of your odors and your faces;
Like Rachel weeps for you the reaved morn,
As often as she views your empty places,
Erewhile the daily scene of her and your embraces.
Come, pensile snow-drop, like the earliest star
That twinkles on the brow of dusky night;
Come, like the child that peeps from door ajar,
With pallid cheek, upon a wasteful sight;
And shouldst thou rise when all around is white,
The more thou'lt demonstrate the power of God
To shield the weak against the arms of might,
To strengthen feeble shoulders for their load,
And sinking hearts 'mid ills they could not full forebode.
Come, crocus cup, the cup where early bees
Sip the first nectar of the liberal year,
Come and illume our green, as similes
Light up the poet's song. And O ye dear
Spring violets, come near, come breathing near;
You too, fair primroses, in darksome woods
Shine forth, like heaven's constellations clear;
And come, ye daisies, throng in multitudes,
And whiten hills and meadows with your saintly hoods.
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