The Snowdrop

Anna Laetitia Barbauld (1743-1825)

Already the Snowdrop dares appear,
The first pale blossom of th’ unripen’d year;
As Flora’s breath, by some transforming power,
Had chang’d an icicle into a flower,
Its name and hue the scentless plant retains,
And winter lingers in its icy veins.