As the seasons come round, the changes often recall to my mind certain verses in 'Bethia Hard-acre's' volume. Such tender loving versions of some of Nature's facts are there, and I go out to verify them. The garden now is one mass of Crocuses, Violets, fading Snowdrops and bursting Daffies; and this is how the flower-chain is described by her:
Blossoms, meet to mourn the dead, On each season's grave are spread; Lilies white and Roses red O'er dead Spring are canopied; Roses in their latest bloom Blazen golden Summer's tomb; Stealthy showers of petals fall At still Autumn's funeral; But the darlings of the year Strew rude Winter's sepulchre.
Scarce a flower does Winter own; Of four seasons he alone Scarce a bud does to him take - Barren for the future's sake, Well content to none possess; And sweet Violets - faithfulness - And white Snowdrops - innocence - Are in death his recompense; And these darlings of the year Strew rude Winter's sepulchre.