Sequestered flower of April days, Thy covert bloom in forest ways A spell about me weaves; Thy frosted petals faint pink glow, Crystal pure like urns of snow That all with incense overflow, Half hid beneath the leaves. Thy ear lies close upon the ground, Far off it hears the thrilling sound Of spring's oncoming feet; Nor lingering snow, nor chilling day, Can long the genial hours delay That fill thy chalice sweet. Thy brittle leaves so harsh and hard, So torn by winds, by winter marred, Enhance thy tender face; But he whose days are evergreen, Though storms may come and frosts be keen, I sharer in thy grace. |