"Soon!" says the Snowdrop, and smiles at the motherly earth,
"Soon!--for the Spring with her languors comes stealthily on
Snow was my cradle, and chill winds sang at my birth;
Winter is over--and I must make haste to be gone!"
"Soon," says the Swallow, and dips to the wind-ruffled stream,
"Grain is all garnered--the Summer is over and done;
Bleak to the eastward the icy battalions gleam,
Summer is over--and I must make haste to be gone!"
"Soon--ah, too soon!" says the Soul, with a pitiful gaze,
"Soon!--for I rose like a star, and for aye would have shone!
See the pale shuddering dawn, that must wither my rays,
Leaps from the mountains--and I must make haste to be gone!"