‘ Tis fit the bloodroot in white hood
Should brave the parting winter's mood,—
Come, thou, pale violet, streaked, sweet-scented,
Beside the runs of this tempered wood.
I hunger for thy gentle face,
Sweetest of all the wildwood race!
O flower, at once ideal and essence,
Why stayest thou from thy wonted place?
Thou art not dead? Nay, when death crept
Upon thy form, thy full life leapt
Defiance at the harsh destroyer,
And slept as seed! Thou hast overslept.