- The crocus, in the shrewd March morn,
- Thrusts up his saffron spear;
- And April dots the sombre thorn
- With gems, and loveliest cheer.
- Then sleep the seasons, full of might;
- While slowly swells the pod,
- And rounds the peach, and in the night
- The mushroom bursts the sod.
- The winter comes: the frozen rut
- Is bound with silver bars;
- The white drift heaps against the hut;
- And night is pierced with stars.
Last modified 6/2/95