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About this Poem 

“The Crocuses” was published in Poems (C.S. Ferguson, 1895).

The Crocuses

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.

 

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

 

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper was born on September 24, 1825. She was a prominent abolitionist and temperance and women's suffrage activist, as well as a poet. 

by this poet

poem
We may sigh o'er the heavy burdens
   Of the black, the brown and white;
But if we all clasped hands together
   The burdens would be more light.
How to solve life's saddest problems,
   Its weariness, want and woe,
Was answered by One who suffered
poem
Make me a grave where'er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill; 
Make it among earth's humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves.

I could not rest if around my grave
I heard the steps of a trembling slave;
His shadow above my silent tomb
Would make it a place of fearful gloom.

I could not
poem
When the gates of pearl are opened
     May we there this friend behold,
 Drink with him from living fountains,
     Walk with him the streets of gold.
 
 When life's shattered cords of music
     Shall again be sweetly sung;
 Then our hearts