Southern Belle
When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-birds’ warble know,
The yellow rose’s modest bell
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.
Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower! I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when they faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.
Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mold;
And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold.
Anon.
