OW strange! to see the flowers of Spring, 'Mid falling snow-wreaths bloom, And Winter, borne on April's wing, Reshadow earth with gloom. To feel the blast that rushes o'er Young blossoms newly born; The chill that wraps in night once more Spring's gay and joyous morn.
Fall as thou wilt, untimely snow, But short shall be thy reign; Soon must yon sun's meridian glow Melt thine unwelcome chain. Jut ah, in many a blasted leaf, In many a blighted flower, Long, long shall live, in tints of grief, The memory of this hour.
I see the crocus hues decay Beneath yon stormy skies; The violet lustre fades away, The gentle primrose dies. And though the sun of Summer hours O'er lovelier tints may gleam, No more shall Spring's first blighted flowers Revive beneath its beam.
And sometimes thus, the heart, all bright With youth's first opening bloom, Feels some dark cloud turn joy to night, And hope to cheerless gloom: And though the sun of life's best hours May burst that icy chain, Yet never can youth's spring-time flowers Bloom fresh and pure again.
OW strange! to see the flowers of Spring,