The White Anemone

'Tis the white anemone, fashioned so Like to the stars of the winter snow, First thinks, "If I come too soon, no doubt I shall seem but the snow that stayed too long, So 'tis I that will be Spring's unguessed scout," And wide she wanders the woods among. Then, from out of the mossiest hiding-places, Smile meek moonlight-colored faces Of pale primroses puritan, In maiden sisterhood demure; Each virgin floweret faint and wan With the bliss of her own sweet breath so pure.