Sweet Crocus, herald of the thawing skies,
Thou lift’st thy cup to greet the sun’s surprise.
Ere other blooms have dared to break the snow,
Thy golden horn proclaims the melt below.
A trump of hope, thou blow’st a gentle cheer,
To rouse the sleeping grass and draw the deer.
Though small thy stem, thy courage is not so —
Thou art the spark from which the spring doth grow.