I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun And crocus fires are kindling one by one: Sing robin, sing: I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.
The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.
Snowdrops: Theirs is a fragile but hardy celebration. . . in the very teeth of winter.