20
TO A NARCISSUS IN JANUARY.
How beautiful art thou, my winter Flower!
Lifting with graceful pride thy stately head,
Heavy with its rich crown of pearl and gold:—
Thou sheddest on the air such soft perfume,
That I could deem 'twas incense, gently flung
Before thy beauty's shrine by some fair sprite
Enamoured of thy maiden loveliness.
The hyacinth and violet entwined
Have scarce so sweet an odour.
Thanks, my Flower,
My gentle, kind companion—for to me
Thy silence is most eloquent:—I love
Thy quiet steadfast gaze, as, o'er my desk,
The long day through thou hast seemed watching me;
And ever and anon, in glancing up,
I still have met thy calm unchanging look,
Reminding me, in silence, of the friend
Whose gift thou wert to me. Yet thou wert then
A mere unsightly root. Oh! how I watched,
With almost childish eagerness, thy growth,
And tended thee with more than common care.
