Crocus

"Welcome, wild harbinger of spring! To this small nook of earth; Feeling and fancy fondly cling Round thoughts which owe their birth To thee, and to the humble spot Where chance has fixed thy lowly lot."

"The Windes all silent are, And Phœbus in his Chaire Ensaffroning Sea and Aire, Makes vanish every Starre."

"How do you know, deep underground, Hid in your bed from sight and sound, Without a turn in temperature, With weather life can scarce endure, That light has won a fraction’s strength, And day put on some moments’ length, Whereof in merest rote will come, Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb; O crocus root, how do you know, How do you know?"

"Hail to the King of Bethlehem, Who weareth in his diadem The yellow crocus for the gem Of his authority!"

"Erinna’s sweet crocus, maiden-hued."

"Where the dance is sweeping, Through the greensward peeping, Shall the soft lights start; Laughing maids, unstaying, Deeming it trick-playing, High their robes upswaying, O’er the lights shall dart; And the woodland haunter Shall not cease to saunter When, far down some glade, Of the great world’s burning, One soft flame upturning Seems, to his discerning, Crocus in the shade."

"Some yellow saffrons pluck’d in wrestling speed; The leaves lay strewn along the vernal mead."

"Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire."

"Why does the world before him Melt in a million suns, Why do his yellow, yearning eyes Burn like saffron buns?"