Will no one sing thee? Then will I.
1
The violet, though herself should die,
Hath songs to keep her living still;
The laureates of the daffodil
Fill half the painted books of song;
5
And, all the perfumed summer long,
For every magic hour she blows,
A thousand minstrels hath the rose.
Ah! what a pampered state is theirs,
9
Nursed by soft rains and April airs,
Spoiled darlings of the earth and sky;
Whilst thou in fetid swamps must lie,
Outcast from kindness, as from fame,
13
Banned by an evil-smelling name.
Yet, who, as thou, when all is drear,
15
The dark beginning of the year,
Lifts up so brave a torch on high,
In boggy woodlands black with mire,
Leaping with sudden urns of fire—
The only brightness in the world?
20
And not another leaf uncurled
In all the landscape far or near—
Of all the glories of the year
The mocked resplendent pioneer.