Brave xanthic bloom! Thou springst ’neath leaden skies,

Midst chilly airs and sheeted rains that fall;

E’er yet the robin to his mate doth call,

Thy fearless bloom mocks at Spring’s vagaries.

A prophecy thou art—lifting thy head

With its bright crown—to light forsaken ways.

The sight of thee recalls long vanished days,

When glad I plucked thee from the barren mead.

I pluck thee now, bright one—thinking the while,

Of that far time—when sweet Persephone,

Upon the plains of sunny Sicily

Reflected thine own brightness in her smile.

Thou’rt so allied, fair flow’r, with her sad strait,

I can but chide thee for her darksome fate.