XLVIII
Fringed Gentian
God made a little gentian;It tried to be a roseAnd failed, and all the summer laughed.But just before the snowsThere came a purple creatureThat ravished all the hill;And summer hid her forehead,And mockery was still.The frosts were her condition;The Tyrian would not comeUntil the North evoked it.“Creator! shall I bloom?”