Thou modest little flower, 

Nursed by the sun’s dim ray,

When Winter rules the hour,

And holds the shortest day.

When all thy race are fled,

Why standest thou alone,

Thy beauty here to spread,

When all the rest are gone?

Presumptuous is the deed,

When frost and snows prevail,

Thy fragrance here to shed,

While wintery storms assail.

The clouds are gathering fast,

And lo! Thy foe is nigh, 

And sullen is the blast

Now rustling in the sky.

Or trust thou in a power

Presiding over all;

When winter clouds doth lower,

To save thee from thy fall.