Foreteller of the vernal ides,
Wise harbinger of spheres and tides—
A lover true, who knew by heart,
Each joy the mountain dales impart;
It seemed that Nature could not raise
A plant in any secret place;
In quaking bog, or snowy hill.
Beneath the grass that shades the rill,
Under the snow, between the rocks,
In damp fields, known to bird and fox;