Before the Hour
Untimely blossom! Poor, impatient thing, That, starting rashly from the sheltering mould, Bravest the peevish wind and sullen cold, Mistaking thine own ardors for the spring,— Thou to my heart a memory dost bring Of hopes once fair like thee, like thee too bold To breathe their fragrance, and their flowers unfold, That droop'd, of wintry rigors languishing. Nor birds, nor bees, nor waters murmuring low, Nor breezes blown from dewy Arcady, Found they,—earth's welcome waiting to bestow; Yet sweet, they felt, sweeter than dreams, would be The summer they had sought too soon to know,— The summer they should never live to see!
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