CROCUSES.
YELLOW and purple and white, Snow-white and lilac and gold, Crocuses, my crocuses, Peering up from the mould; These like fingers of flame, These in a raiment of snow, And these of the dusky hue of thoughts Cherished from long ago.
Last year, last month, last week, My patch of garden was bare, No glimmer of green or gleam of gold Or sign of life was there;
It was only this morning early
That Spring came by this way, And the gifts she leaves for a token Were only mine to-day.
She delayed and delayed her coming, For March was fierce and strong, The bitter wind of his fury Kept Winter here too long; But at last this golden morning Stirred every patient wing, And down the shaft of a sunbeam Glided the gentle Spring.
Hark, how the sparrows twitter, For joy of the warmer sun !
They begin their mating a month ago, And their nesting will soon be done; But the thrush has a gladder welcome, Which he'll sing in the mellow eves, I have heard him trying it over In the trees forlorn of leaves.
Forlorn P Not now, nor ever, Since Spring is here again, And crocuses, my crocuses, Herald her happy reign ; Yellow and white and purple, Snow-white, blue-veined, and gold, The signs of a new possession
That is old as the world is old,—
New life, new love, new leafage, For ever old and young, In all the flowers that open, In all the songs that are sung; And hers is the beautiful mission To blossom and bloom and sing, My crocus-bringer, my passion, The Maid of the Months, the Spring.
GEORGE COTTERELL.
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