A small bird twitters on a leafless spray,
Across the snow-waste breaks a gleam of gold:
What token can I give my friend to-day
But February blossoms, pure and cold?
Frail gifts from Nature’s half-reluctant hand…
I see the signs of spring about the land…
[T]hese chill snowdrops, fresh from wintry bowers,
Are the forerunners of a world of flowers.
by Sarah Doudney