At the present time, A flower's life and aim life.

Art still here? Alive? And blithe?
Though the stormy Night hath fled,
And the Frost hath passed his scythe
O'er thy small, unsheltered head?
Ah!–some lie amidst the dead,
(Many a giant, stubborn tree,–
Many a plant, its spirit shed),
That were better nursed than thee!

What hath saved thee? Thou wast not
'Gainst the arrowy winter furred,–
Armed in scale,–but all forgot
When the frozen winds were stirred.
Nature, who doth clothe the bird,
Should have hid thee in the earth,
Till the cuckoo's song was heard,
And the Spring let loose her mirth.

Nature,–deep and mystic word!
Mighty mother, still unknown!
Thou didst sure the snowdrop gird
With an armour all thine own!
Thou, who sent'st it forth alone
To the cold and sullen season,
(Like a though at random thrown),
Sent it thus for some grave reason!

If 'twere but to pierce the mind
With a single, gentle thought,
Who shall deem thee harsh or blind,
Who that thou hast vainly wrought?
Hoard the gentle virtue caught
From the snowdrop,–reader wise!
Good is good, wherever taught,
On the ground or in the skies!_{–Barry Cornwall.}