THE CROCUS

by: Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811-1896)

ENEATH the sunny autumn sky,

With gold leaves dropping round,

We sought, my little friend and I,

The consecrated ground,

Where, calm beneath the holy cross,

O'ershadowed by sweet skies,

Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form,

Those blue unclouded eyes.

 

Around the soft, green swelling mound

We scooped the earth away,

And buried deep the crocus-bulbs

Against a coming day.

"These roots are dry, and brown, and sere;

Why plant them here?" he said,

"To leave them, all the winter long,

So desolate and dead."

 

"Dear child, within each sere dead form

There sleeps a living flower,

And angel-like it shall arise

In spring's returning hour."

Ah, deeper down -- cold, dark, and chill --

We buried our heart's flower,

But angel-like shall he arise

In spring's immortal hour.

 

In blue and yellow from its grave

Springs up the crocus fair,

And God shall raise those bright blue eyes,

Those sunny waves of hair.

Not for a fading summer's morn,

Not for a fleeting hour,

But for an endless age of bliss,

Shall rise our heart's dear flower.

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