58 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



" And in our northern land, as sweet 

 A welcome waits your punctual feet 

 As Charles's bard could bring. 

 Not lealer heart e'en he could bear, 

 Than ours that greet you, year by year, 

 O herald of the spring ! 



" For us the winter, too, was long 

 And hearts grew faint that had been strong 

 With waiting for your day ! 

 But now, with happy bees that rest 

 For hours contented in your breast, 

 We sing our roundelay. 



" Not richest gold of richest mine 

 Can 'gainst your yellow glories shine 

 And not grow dim and pale. 

 First largesse of the year, you are 

 In her bright dawn the fairest star 

 First, fairest, crocus, hail !" 



Before the crocus are fairly aflame the black 

 mould is pierced by the stout green shoots of 

 the daffodil, an event to be marked in red 

 letters in all the calendars of No- Man's- Land. 

 The hour the pointed wedges cleave the earth 

 is a sacred vigil, pointing onward to the holy 

 day when the brave trumpets of this flower 

 of flowers ushers in the spring. When one 

 has once lost his heart to the daffodil, he 

 has no recourse. All other blossoms seem 

 tame and uninteresting beside it, and the rose 



