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  The Crocuses  


They heard the South wind sighing
     A murmur of the rain;
And they knew that Earth was longing
     To see them all again.

While the snow-drops still were sleeping
     Beneath the silent sod;
They felt their new life pulsing
     Within the dark, cold clod.

Not a daffodil nor daisy
     Had dared to raise its head;
Not a fairhaired dandelion
     Peeped timid from its bed;

Though a tremor of the winter
     Did shivering through them run;
Yet they lifted up their foreheads
     To greet the vernal sun.

And the sunbeams gave them welcome.
     As did the morning air
And scattered o'er their simple robes
     Rich tints of beauty rare.

Soon a host of lovely flowers
     From vales and woodland burst;
But in all that fair procession
     The crocuses were first.

First to weave for Earth a chaplet
     To crown her dear old head;
And to beautify the pathway
     Where winter still did tread.

And their loved and white haired mother
     Smiled sweetly 'neath the touch,
When she knew her faithful children
     Were loving her so much.

       - Frances E. W. Harper

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