Note 493 — 1827

Lady, what delicate graces may unite In age—so often comfortless and bleak! Though from thy unenfeebled eye-balls break Those saintly emanations of delight, A snow-drop let me name thee; pure, chaste, white, Too pure for flesh and blood; with smooth, blanch'd cheek, And head that droops because the soul is meek, And not that Time presses with weary weight. Hope, Love, and Joy are with thee fresh as fair; A Child of Winter prompting thoughts that climb From desolation towards the genial prime: Or, like the moon, conquering the misty air And filling more and more with chrystal light, As pensive evening deepens into night.—Ed.