A Snowdrop
Only a tender little thing,
So velvet soft and white it is;
But march himself is not so strong,
With all the great gales that are his.
In vain his whistling storms he calls,
In vain the cohorts of his power
Ride down the sky on mighty blasts—
He cannot crush the little flower.
Its white spear parts the sod, the snows
Than that white spear less snowy are,
The rains roll off its crest like spray,
It lifts again its spotless star.
Harriet Prescott Spofford.