I plucked a snow-drop in the spring, And in my hand too closely pressed; The warmth had hurt the tender thing, I grieved to see it withering. I gave my love a poppy red, And laid it on her snow-cold breast; But poppies need a warmer bed, We wept to find the flower was dead.
Rate this Poem:
Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; Driftwood