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Rh And some green traces of expected May Are venturing to show forth; tho' not as yet The violet or primrose have awak'd, Or the wild rose blush'd faintly into bud; Only the languid snow-drop now is seen— A melancholy harbinger of joy, Whose delicate beauty is but for a day, To welcome in the spring, and then to die. And by it is the deadly aconite— To look upon, a pale and innocent flower— Alas! that even in this first fair gift, This early wreath, there should the poison lurk! But it is thus with every loveliness: Either so frail, its life is but a breath, Or else some bitterness grows by its side.