To the Snowdrop, by Charlotte Smith

If winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Ah! yes; for through the long and dreary night,
Unstirred by your soft light,
Hope cannot be—naked and cold remain
The flowers that once were bright—
Ye feel not, O ye drooping buds!
That the Time, the Life returning,
Brings with it joy—but yours its breath
May wait.

Yet I will trust you, on the bending bough,
Your meek and blushing flower,
Will once again behold the sun,
Despite the slowest of your gory fate.

• Charlotte Smith