14. The Crocus

The crocus lifts her valiant head

To light the first flame of the year,

And winter falters.

She blows a horn to rouse the dead,

And snaps the bonds of age and fear.

To flower’d altars

She draws the hearts of youth; and shed

No longer is the mourning tear.

 

Unlike her sister snowdrop who

Hides her pale face, her head bowed down

As if in sorrow;

She is to life’s mystique more true,

For she looks up to claim her crown;

And her tomorrow

The golden treasure will renew

Though locked in winter’s coffers brown.