Flora the pattern flowers was showing,
Which on her couch were sweetly blowing;
While the light zephyr, pertly gay,
Now brought the scents, now bore away.
"Accept, sweet Spring," gay Flora said,
"This snowdrop with its lowly head;
Wrapt up in many a fleece of snow,
The little lady loves to go;
But her pale cheek would ne'er be seen,
Did I not trim her coif with green.
My sweetest violet next behold, —
How blue it looks, inhuman cold!
Yet not thy chilling hand can stay
Those sweets that scorn to wait for May!
The harebell now her goblet bears
With brimful cup of dewy tears,
Which o'er primroses pale she sheds,
That scarce have strength to leave their beds,
Till daisies and gay cowslips lead
Their weaker sisters o'er the mead,
And pendant leaves begin to spread
A waving shelter over head;
The woods and groves await thy will,
The sickly plant to spare or kill;
Come then, thou sower of the meads,
And scatter all the promis'd seeds!
When done, where'er thou mov'st along,
Leaves, plants, and flowers shall round thee throng;
Which wandering near the tinkling rill,
Shall, stooping, seem to listen still."