Oh, nippéd bud,
of thee I sing,
poor little cringing
misshapen thing!
Frost’s cruel fang
hast bit thy head
and left the blood
a darkened red.
Thy brothers and sisters
in sad disarray
look equally puny,
alack-a-day.
How now, spring?
What mischief this?
whither the photo
for our synthesis?
