The Poetry Corner

The Snowdrop.

By John Clare

Sweet type of innocence, snow-clothed blossom, Seemly, though vainly, bowing down to shun The storm hard-beating on thy wan white bosom, Left in the swail, and little cheer'd by sun; Resembling that frail jewel, just begun To ope on vice's eye its witcheries blooming, Midst all its storms, with little room to shun-- Ah, thou art winter's snowdrop, lovely Woman! In this world dropt, where every evil's glooming With killing tempests o'er its tender prey, Watching the opening of thy beauties coming, Its every infant charm to snatch away: Then come the sorrows thou'rt too weak to brave, And then thy beauty-cheek digs ruin's early grave.