Beneath the sunny autumn sky, <br />With gold leaves dropping round, <br />We sought, my little friend and I, <br />The consecrated ground, <br />Where, calm beneath the holy cross, <br />O'ershadowed by sweet skies, <br />Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form, <br />Those blue unclouded eyes. <br /> <br />Around the soft, green swelling mound <br />We scooped the earth away, <br />And buried deep the crocus-bulbs <br />Against a coming day. <br />'These roots are dry, and brown, and sere; <br />Why plant them here?' he said, <br />'To leave them, all the winter long, <br />So desolate and dead.' <br /> <br />'Dear child, within each sere dead form <br />There sleeps a living flower, <br />And angel-like it shall arise <br />In spring's returning hour.' <br />Ah, deeper down — cold, dark, and chill — <br />We buried our heart's flower, <br />But angel-like shall he arise <br />In spring's immortal hour. <br /> <br />In blue and yellow from its grave <br />Springs up the crocus fair, <br />And God shall raise those bright blue eyes, <br />Those sunny waves of hair. <br />Not for a fading summer's morn, <br />Not for a fleeting hour, <br />But for an endless age of bliss, <br />Shall rise our heart's dear flower.<br /><br />Harriet Beecher Stowe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-crocus-2/
