Patrick Regan has kindly shared the material from his George Heath site with readers of the Victorian Web, who may wish to consult the original.

Tender snowdrops, wee and white,
      Go to her whose beauty lies
On my being, like the light
      Of the stars on brows of skies.

When the moon hath not a streak,
      And the night all gloom would be,
But for those still gems that break
      Through the mirk on land and sea.

Go to her I love, and say
      "Fearful love is ever true;
Say I cherish her to-day
      With a thought as pure as you."

And, as ye are hands of hope,
      Stretching out to broken things
Toiling up the winter slope,
      And the year's first blossoming;

So is she the Iris-light
      Stretching to me through the years;
First for her, my soul in might
      Woke and gave me love and tears.

And as ye, frail things, are soon
      Riven of your modest bloom;
Morn of spring, and summer's noon
      Lustre o'er your living tomb.

So, if she should spurn my love,
      Scorch my hope with cruel breath,
On and on the years will move,
      Blooming o'er the living death.

Last modified 3 September 2002