Thus in the fields They spent their holiday. And when the sun Was near the going down, they turned them home With strengthened hearts. For they were filled with light, And with the spring; and, like the bees, went back To their dark house, laden with blessed sights, With gladsome sounds home to their treasure-cave; Where henceforth sudden gleams of spring would pass Thorough the four-walled darkness of the room; And sounds of spring-time whisper trembling by, Though stony streets with iron echoed round. And as they crossed a field, they came by chance Upon a place where once a home had been; Fragments of ruined walls, half-overgrown With moss, for even stones had their green robe. It had been a small cottage, with a plot Of garden-ground in front, mapped out with walks Now scarce discernible, but that the grass Was thinner, the ground harder to the foot: The place was simply shadowed with an old Almost erased human carefulness. Close by the ruined wall, where once had been The door dividing it from the great world, Making it _home_, a single snowdrop grew. 'Twas the sole remnant of a family Of flowers that in this garden once had dwelt, Vanished with all their hues of glowing life, Save one too white for death. And as its form Arose within the brain, a feeling sprung Up in their souls, new, white, and delicate; A waiting, longing, patient hopefulness, The snowdrop of the heart. The heavenly child, Pale with the earthly cold, hung its meek head, Enduring all, and so victorious; The Summer's earnest in the waking Earth, The spirit's in the heart. I love thee, flower, With a love almost human, tenderly; The Spring's first child, yea, thine, my hoping heart! Upon thy inner leaves and in thy heart, Enough of green to tell thou know'st the grass; In thy white mind remembering lowly friends; But most I love thee for that little stain Of earth on thy transfigured radiancy, Which thou hast lifted with thee from thy grave, The soiling of thy garments on thy road, Travelling forth into the light and air, The heaven of thy pure rest. Some gentle rain Will surely wash thee white, and send the earth Back to the place of earth; but now it signs Thee child of earth, of human birth as we.