God made a little Gentian

God made a little Gentian— It tried—to be a Rose— And failed—and all the Summer laughed— But just before the Snows There rose a Purple Creature— That ravished all the Hill— And Summer hid her Forehead— And Mockery—was still— The Frosts were her condition— The Tyrian would not come Until the North—invoke it— Creator—Shall I—bloom?