It begins something like this: She watched them dying for many a day, Dropping from off the old trees away, One by one; or else in a shower Crowding over the withered flower For as if they had done some grievous wrong, The sun, that had nursed them and loved them so long, Grew weary of loving, and, turning back, Hastened away on his southern track; And helplessly hung each shrivelled leaf, Faded away with an idle grief.
And the gusts of wind, sad Autumn's sighs, Mournfully swept through their families; Casting away with a helpless moan All that he yet might call his own, As the child, when his bird is gone for ever, Flingeth the cage on the wandering river.
And the giant trees, as bare as Death, Slowly bowed to the great Wind's breath; And groaned with trying to keep from groaning Amidst the young trees bending and moaning.
And the ancient planet's mighty sea Was heaving and falling most restlessly, And the tops of the waves were broken and white, Tossing about to ease their might; And the river was striving to reach the main, And the ripple was hurrying back again.
Nature lived in sadness now; Sadness lived on the maiden's brow, As she watched, with a fixed, half-conscious eye, One lonely leaf that trembled on high, Till it dropped at last from the desolate bough-- Sorrow, oh, sorrow! 'tis winter now.
And her tears gushed forth, though it was but a leaf, For little will loose the swollen fountain of grief: When up to the lip the water goes, It needs but a drop, and it overflows.
Oh! many and many a dreary year Must pass away ere the buds appear: Many a night of darksome sorrow Yield to the light of a joyless morrow, Ere birds again, on the clothed trees, Shall fill the branches with melodies.
She will dream of meadows with wakeful streams; Of wavy grass in the sunny beams; Of hidden wells that soundless spring, Hoarding their joy as a holy thing; Of founts that tell it all day long To the listening woods, with exultant song; She will dream of evenings that die into nights, Where each sense is filled with its own delights, And the soul is still as the vaulted sky, Lulled with an inner harmony; And the flowers give out to the dewy night, Changed into perfume, the gathered light; And the darkness sinks upon all their host, Till the sun sail up on the eastern coast-- She will wake and see the branches bare, Weaving a net in the frozen air.
The story goes on to tell how, at last, weary with wintriness, she travelled towards the southern regions of her globe, to meet the spring on its slow way northwards; and how, after many sad adventures, many disappointed hopes, and many tears, bitter and fruitless, she found at last, one stormy afternoon, in a leafless forest, a single snowdrop growing betwixt the borders of the winter and spring.

She lay down beside it and died.

I almost believe that a child, pale and peaceful as a snowdrop, was born in the Earth within a fixed season from that stormy afternoon..