Part 6 (2/2)
THE CROCUS FLAME
The Easter sunrise flung a bar of gold O'er the awakening wold.
What was thine answer, O thou brooding earth, What token of re-birth, Of tender vernal mirth, Thou the long-prisoned in the bonds of cold?
Under the kindling panoply which G.o.d Spreads over tree and clod, I looked far abroad.
Umber the sodden reaches seemed and seer As when the dying year, With rime-white sandals shod, Faltered and fell upon its frozen bier.
Of some rathe quickening, some divine Renascence not a sign!
And yet, and yet, With touch of viol-chord, with mellow fret, The lyric South amid the bough-tops stirred, And one lone bird An unexpected jet Of song projected through the morning blue, As though some wondrous hidden thing it knew.
And so I gathered heart, and cried again: ”O earth, make plain, At this matutinal hour, The triumph and the power Of life eternal over death and pain, Although it be but by some simple flower!”
And then, with sudden light, Was dowered my veiled sight, And I beheld in a sequestered place A slender crocus show its sun-bright face.
O miracle of Grace, Earth's Easter answer came, The revelation of transfiguring Might, In that small crocus flame!
CLINTON SCOLLARD
THE EARLY G.o.dS
It is the time of violets.
It is the very day When in the shadow of the wood Spring shall have her say, Remembering how the early G.o.ds Came up the violet way.
Are there not violets And G.o.ds-- To-day?
WITTER BYNNER
A TULIP GARDEN
Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace!
Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry, With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye Of purple batteries, every gun in place.
Forward they come, with flaunting colors spread, With torches burning, stepping out in time To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead, We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime Parades the army. With our utmost powers We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers.
AMY LOWELL
TULIPS
Brave little fellows in crimsons and yellows, Coming while breezes of April are cold, Winter can't freeze you, he flies when he sees you Thrusting your spears through the redolent mold.
Jolly Dutch flowers, rejoicing in showers, Drink! ere the pageant of Spring pa.s.ses by!
Hold your carousals to Robin's espousals, Lifting rich cups for the wine of the sky!
Dignified urbans in glossy silk turbans, Burgherlike blossoms of gardens and squares, Nodding so solemn by fountain and column, What is the talk of your weighty affairs?
Pollen and honey (for such is your money),-- Gossip and freight of the chaffering bee,-- Prospects of growing,--what colors are showing,-- News of rare tulips from over the sea?
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