The Crocuses

They heard the South wind sighing
      A murmur of the rain;
And they knew that Earth was longing
      To see them all again.

While the snow-drops still were sleeping
      Beneath the silent sod;
They felt their new life pulsing
      Within the dark, cold clod.

Not a daffodil nor daisy
      Had dared to raise its head;
Not a fairhaired dandelion
      Peeped timid from its bed;

Though a tremor of the winter
      Did shivering through them run;
Yet they lifted up their foreheads
      To greet the vernal sun.

And the sunbeams gave them welcome,
      As did the morning air—
And scattered o’er their simple robes
      Rich tints of beauty rare.

Soon a host of lovely flowers
      From vales and woodland burst;
But in all that fair procession
      The crocuses were first.

First to weave for Earth a chaplet
      To crown her dear old head;
And to beauty the pathway
      Where winter still did tread.

And their loved and white haired mother
      Smiled sweetly ’neath the touch,
When she knew her faithful children
      Were loving her so much.