Before the Hour

UNTIMELY blossom! poor, impatient thing,That starting rashly from the sheltering mouldBravest the peevish wind and sullen cold,Mistaking thine own ardors for the spring!—Thou to my heart a memory dost bringOf hopes once fair like thee, like thee too boldTo breathe their fragrance, and their flowers unfold,That droop'd, of wintry rigors languishing.

Nor birds, nor bees, nor waters murmuring low,Nor breezes blown from any Arcady,Found they,—earth's welcome waiting to bestow;Yet sweet, they felt, sweeter than dreams, would beThe summer they had sought too soon to know,—The summer they should never live to see!