II.

The spring is come; the violet's gone, The first-born child of the early sun:[dt] With us she is but a winter's flower, The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 10 And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.

And when the spring comes with her host Of flowers, that flower beloved the most Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.