The crocuses at once opened their flowers and strutted, short as they were, for they were ever so proud of being among the first. But, while they were still swarming out, already Spring was in a fresh place and sang:
Climb, whitlow-grass, thy willow-mast!
O where art thou? Yet sleeping fast?
Thou wast not wont to enter last:
Up, lower plants preceding!
And all the willow-branches were filled forthwith with the yellow flowers of the whitlow-grass, which nodded gladly to the crocuses and snowdrops. And Spring sang again:
Dear fresh spurge-laurel, briskly grow!
Thou, whose keen lance with fiery glow
Would burst the lap of the cold snow,
Come forth: obey my pleading!