To Flowers from Italy in Winter
Sunned in the South, and here to-day;—If all organic thingsBe sentient, Flowers, as some men say,What are your ponderings?
How can you stay, nor vanish quiteFrom this bleak spot of thorn,And birch, and fir, and frozen whiteExpanse of the forlorn?
Frail luckless exiles hither brought!Your dust will not regainOld sunny haunts of Classic thoughtWhen you shall waste and wane;
But mix with alien earth, be litWith frigid Boreal flame,And not a sign remain in itTo tell men whence you came.
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