Amid the alps eternal snows
Alone the alpine flower blooms,
Content, that, thus Heaven's gate
They dwell in grandeur and in gloom.
The mountain bears it's lofty brow
And to it's bosom tempts the storm;
But in it's chink of rifted snow,
The floweret rest in secure and warm.
'Tis born or storms and swathed in snow,
It's nutriment keen, frosted air:
Yet fairer, sweeter, purer flowers,
Not sunny vales can claim or ware.
~Augusta Cleveland Prindle
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