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.