Their snowy cones half open lie,
The dew-drops of the morn to sip,
But close to day’s intrusive eye.
And in their pure and stately grace,
Their shrinking from the noontide glare,
The charm they yield their dwelling-place,
How like the noblest of the fair!
To thy serene and balmy air,
Above life’s vain and common things,
Should gentle spirits oft repair,