Page:Ethel Churchill Fragments II.pdf/44



'Tis a fair tree, the almond-tree: there Spring Shews the first promise of her rosy wreath; Or ere the green leaves venture from the bud, Those fragile blossoms light the winter bough With delicate colours, heralding the rose, Whose own Aurora they might seem to be. What lurks beneath their faint and lovely red? What the dark spirit in those fairy flowers? 'Tis death!