MARCH 57 



rich and poor, how many generations of men 

 have walked in thought over the thymy reaches 

 of those sweet acres ; have rested in those dusky 

 boscages ; have passed along the parti-coloured 

 borders where 



"One by one, the daughters of the year 

 Through that still garden passed," 



each with her coronal whose colours and odours 

 no time can fade or change a true paradise, 

 that, in which world-weary hearts may ever 

 walk by faith, and where joys pure and imper- 

 ishable are hoarded up for the refreshment of 

 the citizens of all time ! 



The little crocus hath made many friends, 

 and loved ones and true. 



" They were all said in Herrick's days, 

 Of flowers the fittest words of praise ; 

 As worthy praise are you ! 

 As brave you lift your chalice up, 

 With wine as rare you crown your cup, 

 O Crocus, brimmed with dew ! 



" And were old Robert here to paint 

 Your cheerful virtues, humble saint, 

 Pure, knowing naught of fear : 

 'Twould scarce be better worth your while 

 To light the March days with your smile, 

 Than 'tis for us, my dear? 



