Underneath its snowy bed,
The hepatica lies dead!
All its beauteous colors fled!

No, not dead, but sleeping; Spring
Shall again its beauty bring,
And its beauty poets sing.

There, protected from the cold,
Doth the plant its life still hold,
Woolly leaves the germ infold.

In the bud a flower survives,
Hidden from man's searching eyes;
'Tis not Beauty's self that dies!

Beauty still is born anew,
We again its tints shall view,
Rosy purple, deepest blue.