Флоренс Эрл Коутс (Florence Earle Coates)

Before the Hour

Untimely blossom! Poor, impatient thing,
⁠     That, starting rashly from the sheltering mould,
     ⁠Bravest the peevish wind and sullen cold,
⁠     Mistaking thine own ardors for the spring,—
Thou to my heart a memory dost bring
     ⁠Of hopes once fair like thee, like thee too bold
⁠     To breathe their fragrance, and their flowers unfold,
⁠     That droop'd, of wintry rigors languishing.
Nor birds, nor bees, nor waters murmuring low,
⁠     Nor breezes blown from dewy Arcady,
⁠     Found they,—earth's welcome waiting to bestow;
Yet sweet, they felt, sweeter than dreams, would be
     ⁠The summer they had sought too soon to know,—
     ⁠The summer they should never live to see! 

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