Like pendent flakes of vegetating snow,
The early herald of the infant year,
Ere yet the adventurous crocus dares to blow,
Beneath the orchard boughs thy buds appear.
While still the cold north-east ungenial lours,
And scarce the hazel in the leafless copse,
Or sallows shew their downy powder’d flowers,
The grass is spangled with thy silver drops.
Yet when those pallid blossoms shall give place
To countless tribes, of richer hue and scent,
Summer’s gay blooms, and autumn’s yellow race,
I shall thy pale inodorous bells lament.
So journeying onward in life’s varying track,
Ev’n while warm youth its bright illusion lends,
Fond memory often with regret looks back
To childhood’s pleasures, and to infant friends.