I plucked a snow-drop in the spring, <br />And in my hand too closely pressed; <br />The warmth had hurt the tender thing, <br />I grieved to see it withering. <br />I gave my love a poppy red, <br />And laid it on her snow-cold breast; <br />But poppies need a warmer bed, <br />We wept to find the flower was dead.<br /><br />Sara Teasdale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-3/
