7THE PALM WILLOWSee, whirling snow sprinkles the starvèd fields,The birds have stayed to sing;No covert yet their fairy harbour yields.When cometh Spring?Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unbornAre quenched each morn.The lenten lilies, through the frost that push,Their yellow heads withhold:The woodland willow stands a lonely bushOf nebulous gold;There the Spring-goddess cowers in faint attireOf frightened fire.
7THE PALM WILLOWSee, whirling snow sprinkles the starvèd fields,The birds have stayed to sing;No covert yet their fairy harbour yields.When cometh Spring?Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unbornAre quenched each morn.The lenten lilies, through the frost that push,Their yellow heads withhold:The woodland willow stands a lonely bushOf nebulous gold;There the Spring-goddess cowers in faint attireOf frightened fire.
See, whirling snow sprinkles the starvèd fields,The birds have stayed to sing;No covert yet their fairy harbour yields.When cometh Spring?Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unbornAre quenched each morn.The lenten lilies, through the frost that push,Their yellow heads withhold:The woodland willow stands a lonely bushOf nebulous gold;There the Spring-goddess cowers in faint attireOf frightened fire.
See, whirling snow sprinkles the starvèd fields,The birds have stayed to sing;No covert yet their fairy harbour yields.When cometh Spring?Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unbornAre quenched each morn.The lenten lilies, through the frost that push,Their yellow heads withhold:The woodland willow stands a lonely bushOf nebulous gold;There the Spring-goddess cowers in faint attireOf frightened fire.
See, whirling snow sprinkles the starvèd fields,The birds have stayed to sing;No covert yet their fairy harbour yields.When cometh Spring?Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unbornAre quenched each morn.
See, whirling snow sprinkles the starvèd fields,
The birds have stayed to sing;
No covert yet their fairy harbour yields.
When cometh Spring?
Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unborn
Are quenched each morn.
The lenten lilies, through the frost that push,Their yellow heads withhold:The woodland willow stands a lonely bushOf nebulous gold;There the Spring-goddess cowers in faint attireOf frightened fire.
The lenten lilies, through the frost that push,
Their yellow heads withhold:
The woodland willow stands a lonely bush
Of nebulous gold;
There the Spring-goddess cowers in faint attire
Of frightened fire.