To a Hyacinth in January
by Constance Naden (1858-1889)
Sweet household hyacinth, whose dainty breath
Steals through my spirit like an April dream!
Each day I watch another snowy gleam,
That dawns and brightens through thine emerald sheath:
The encircling air, the water from beneath,
The fireside glow, the pallid noon‐day beam,
Arise transfigured in thy white raceme,
Safe from the New Year’s wind, whose touch were death.
The bells of Spring are not so sweet and fair,
For they with wind and rain and hail must cope,
That all too soon their tender life destroy;
But thou, warm sheltered from the frosty air,
Art like some delicate and hidden hope,
More full and fragrant than the promised joy.