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 beauty 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.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on September 9, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.