A frosty winter, and a dusty March,
And a rain about Aperill,
And another about the Lammas time
When the corn begins to fill,
Is worth a ploughy of gold
And all her pins theretill.
Come gather the crocus-cups with me,
And dream of the summer coming;
Saffron, and purple, and snowy white,
All awake to the first bees humming.
The white is there for the maiden-heart,
And the purple is there for sorrow;
The saffron is there for the true true love,
And they'll all be dead to-morrow.
Sebastian Evans.
Beside the garden path the crocus now
Puts forth its head to woo the genial breeze,
And finds the snowdrop, hardier visitant,
Already basking in the solar ray.
Upon the brooke the water cresses float
More greenly, and the bordering reeds exalt
Higher their speary summits. Joyously,
From stone to stone, the ouzel flits along,
Startling the linnet from the hawthorn bough;
While on the elm-tree, overshadowing deep
The low-roofed cottage white, the blackbird sits
Cheerily hymning the awakened year.
Blank earth-baldness clothes itself afresh,
And breaks into the crocus-purple hour.
Tennyson.