And deep winds piloted the shriven snow,
He saw its gleaming in the cottage fire,
While, with a book of botany on his knee,
He sat and hunger’d for a breath of spring.
Here beds of roses sweetened all the page;
Here lilies whiter than the falling snow
Crept gleaming softly from the printed lines;
Here dewy violets sparkled till the book
Dazzled his eyes with rays of misty blue.
—ROBERT BUCHANAN.