February 1st, 1842

One month is past, another is begun,
Since merry bells rung out the dying year.
And buds of rarest green begin to peer.
As if impatient for a warmer sun ;
And though the distant hills are bleak and dun.
The virgin snowdrop, like a lambent fire,
Pierces the cold earth with its green-sheath'd spire
And in dark woods the wandering little one
May find a primrose. Thus the better mind
Puts forth some flowers, escaped from Paradise,
Though faith be dim as faintest wintry skies,
And passion fierce as January wind.
O God, vouchsafe a sunbeam clear and kind,
To cheer the pining flow'ret ere it dies.