They heard the South wind sighing <br />A murmur of the rain; <br />And they knew that Earth was longing <br />To see them all again. <br /> <br />While the snow-drops still were sleeping <br />Beneath the silent sod; <br />They felt their new life pulsing <br />Within the dark, cold clod. <br /> <br />Not a daffodil nor daisy <br />Had dared to raise its head; <br />Not a fairhaired dandelion <br />Peeped timid from its bed; <br /> <br />Though a tremor of the winter <br />Did shivering through them run; <br />Yet they lifted up their foreheads <br />To greet the vernal sun. <br /> <br />And the sunbeams gave them welcome. <br />As did the morning air <br />And scattered o'er their simple robes <br />Rich tints of beauty rare. <br /> <br />Soon a host of lovely flowers <br />From vales and woodland burst; <br />But in all that fair procession <br />The crocuses were first. <br /> <br />First to weave for Earth a chaplet <br />To crown her dear old head; <br />And to beautify the pathway <br />Where winter still did tread. <br /> <br />And their loved and white haired mother <br />Smiled sweetly 'neath the touch, <br />When she knew her faithful children <br />Were loving her so much.<br /><br />Frances Ellen Watkins Harper<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-crocuses/
