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 beautify 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.