White Tulip

Freezing, alone, a girl within herself tends the ground; Knowing the water does nothing but freeze, till around The turn of the year, winter gives way to spring again, Where cold, distant ice sees to mending; flowers begin To grow; their petals moist with rain, and tears, left over From cruel storms bold enough to haunt this cold December. A hope in Hell, for those that still have the strength to dream Of Heaven here on what seems to be a barren earth. Opening her mouth, she still could not muster a scream, And could not bear the memory of love's distant birth. But summer comes, and the rains are warm for her again! For she was born, too. To laugh, and dance, and now begin To grow like the white tulip, though delicate and small, Still—perennial in the hearts of poets, who all,— Remember their little flowers,—no matter how long They must wait, through bleakest months, and hours, for their song To hold in truth and sight, to smell and caress petals, Held fast but in memories too long, and short, to live. But there is hope in this barren climate that trembles: Her blossoming happiness is more than fame could give.