That so delay’d its blooming hour
Through all the stormy weather,
Through March and April, May and June
Has open’d now to shut so soon!
Nay, nay; it shall not fail me so.
It yet shall feel—though but my blow.”
She spoke, and smote with all her might
The fragile stem and blossom bright;
And both flew off together.
“Not so,” he cried; “nay, never.