the snowdrop in February, and in frost. Indeed he told me that there was a
tolerable sprinkling of snow upon the ground:

"I know not what among the grass thou art,
Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower,
Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power
To send thine image through them to the heart;
But when I push the frosty leaves apart,
And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower,
Thou growest up within me from that hour,
And through the snow I with the spring depart.

I have no words. But fragrant is the breath,
Pale Beauty, of thy second life within.
There is a wind that cometh for thy death,
But thou a life immortal dost begin,
Where, in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell
Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!"

"Will you say it again, papa?" said Connie; "I do not quite understand it."

"I will, my dear. But I will do something better as well. I will go and
write it out for you, as soon as I have given you something else that I
have brought."

"Thank you, papa. And please write it in your best Sunday hand, that I may
read it quite easily."

I promised, and repeated the poem.