Fair Maid of February! — drop of snow
Enchanted to a flow'r, and therewithin
A dream of April green, — who without sin
Conceived wast, but how no man may know;
I would thou mightest, being of heavenly kin,
Pray for us all (thy lips are pure, altho'
The soil be soak'd with tears and blood), to win
Some pity somewhere for man's grievous woe.
A foolish phantasy and fond conceit!
Yet mark this little white-green bell, three-cleft,
And muse upon it. Earth is not bereft
Of miracles; lo, here is one complete:
And after this the whole new springtime left,
And all the roses that make summer sweet.