WITHERED SNOWDROPS.
93
I must take it from the pure ones:
Henceforth they must live apart.
But I could not cut my flow'ret—
My lost angel—from my heart.
Oft I think of that dead snowdrop,
Think with sorrow, when I meet,
"Day by day, the poor lost flowers,—
Sullied snowdrops of the street.
They were pure once, loved and loving,
And there still lives good within.
Ah I speak gently to them: harsh words
Will not lead them from their sin.
The are not like withered flowers
That can never bloom again:
They can rise, bright angel snowdrops,
Purified from every stain.
