Sunned in the South, and here to-day;

   —If all organic things

Be sentient, Flowers, as some men say,

   What are your ponderings?

How can you stay, nor vanish quite

   From this bleak spot of thorn,

And birch, and fir, and frozen white

   Expanse of the forlorn?

Frail luckless exiles hither brought!

   Your dust will not regain

Old sunny haunts of Classic thought

   When you shall waste and wane;

But mix with alien earth, be lit

   With frigid Boreal flame,

And not a sign remain in it

   To tell men whence you came.