Snowdrops

Blossoms blown from the breath of Spring,1
                        
                        Messages sweet to me ye bring2
                        
                        From my fair lady far away,3
                        
                        In the land where the mountain spirits 
play4
                        
                        play4
And the waters seaward sing.5
                        My love has a garden, fair and free :6
                        
                        Its beauty blooms by the sleepless sea—7
                        
                        And the days come and the days go,8
                        
                        They drift through winter and wind and 
snow,9
                        
                        snow,9
And I know she dreams of me.10
                        Here I bide in a dingy place,11
                        
                        Where hearts grow hard in their mammon 
race,12
                        
                        race,12
And love is sold in Sin’s sad mart,13
                        
                        And the world forgets it has a heart,14
                        
                        And veils in night its face. . .15
                        But here, in the hate, and the sin, and 
scorn,16
                        
                        scorn,16
As I linger, lonely, and sick, and lorn,17
                        
                        See—I lay one bright blossom by—18
                        
                        It shall sleep on my bosom when I die,19
                        
                        Till the dawn of Judgment Morn.20
                        And out of the dust of my dead heart21
                        
                        Sweet blossoming bells of snow shall start,22
                        
                        As thoughts of my lady, none know 
how,23
                        
                        how,23
Spring from my living heart, even now,24
                        
                        As the fleeting hours depart.25
                        And, in the Morn of God, I know,26
                        
                        They shall say,  “ Who gave these thoughts 
of snow27
                        
                        of snow27
To this poor poet, who lies asleep,28
                        
                        Under the grasses, quiet and deep,29
                        
                        While she ages o’er him blow ?”30
                        Wilt thou stand up then, my lady fair,31
                        
                        And say, in the golden silence there—32
                        
                        “ He is my poet, although he lies33
                        
                        With the dust of death in his darkened eyes,34
                        
                        And dust in his heart of care. . .35
                        “ He is my poet ;  and all the years,36
                        
                        Through days of joy, and nights of tears,37
                        
                        I loved him still, with a heart of snow,38
                        
                        Pure as the bells on his grave that blow,39
                        
                        With a love that knew no fears.40
                        “ When he lay alone, ’neath the quiet green-
sward,41
                        
                        sward,41
In the silent night of the dim kirkyard,42
                        
                        I dreamed of him, and I know, in his sleep,43
                        
                        He dreamed of me, though the grave was 
deep,44
                        
                        deep,44
For love by the grave keeps ward.”45
                        Shall we roam together then, hand in hand,46
                        
                        Through the glades and the glens of the 
deathless land ?47
                        
                        deathless land ?47
Yea, chasted as a queen in robes of snow,48
                        
                        Pure as these blossoms, your soul shall 
go. . .49
                        
                        go. . .49
Will the angels understand ?50