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To our English guests: You can have a translation into English when you click herePour nos visiteurs français: Vous obtiendrez une traduction en français en cliquant ici

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

The Snowdrop

Fear no more, thou timid Flower!
Fear thou no more the winter's might, ! !
The whelming thaw, the ponderous shower, !
The silence of the freezing night! !
Since Laura murmur'd o'er thy leaves!
The potent sorceries of song, !
To thee, meek Flowret! gentler gales!
And cloudless skies belong. ! !
Her eye with tearful meanings fraught, !
She gaz'd till all the body mov'd!
Interpreting the Spirit's thought-!
The Spirit's eager sympathy!
Now trembled with thy trembling stem, !
And while thy droopedst o'er thy bed, !
With sweet unconscious sympathy!
Inclin'd the drooping head.
She droop'd her head, she stretch'd her arm, !
She whisper'd low her witching rhymes, !
Fame unreluctant heard the charm, !
And bore thee to Pierian climes! !
Fear thou no more the Matin Frost!
That sparkled on thy bed of snow: !
For there, mid laurels ever green, !
Immortal thou shalt blow. !
Thy petals boast a white more soft, !
The spell hath so perfumed thee, ! That careless Love shall deem thee oft!
A blossom from his Myrtle tree. !
Then, laughing at the fair deceit, !
Shall race with some Etesian wind!
To seek the woven arboret!
Where Laura lies reclin'd.
All them whom Love and Fancy grace, !
When grosser eyes are clos'd in sleep, !
The gentle spirits of the place!
Waft up the insuperable steep, !
On whose vast summit broad and smooth!
Her nest the Phoenix Bird conceals, !
And where by cypresses o'erhung!
The heavenly Lethe steals.
A sea-like sound the branches breathe, !
Stirr'd by the Breeze that loiters there; !
And all that stretch their limbs beneath, !
Forget the coil of mortal care. !
Strange mists along the margins rise, !
To heal the guests who thither come, !
And fit the soul to re-endure!
Its earthly martyrdom. !
The margin dear to moonlight elves!
Where Zephyr-trembling Lilies grow, !
And bend to kiss their softer selves!
That tremble in the stream below:- !
There nightly borne does Laura lie!
A magic Slumber heaves her breast!
Her arm, white wanderer of the Harp, !
Beneath her cheek is prest!
The Harp unhung by golden chains!
Of that low wind which whispers round, !
With coy reproachfulness complains, !
In snatches of reluctant sound: !
The music hovers half-perceiv'd, !
And only moulds the slumberer's dreams; !
Remember'd LOVES relume her cheek!
With Youth's returning gleams.

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