‘211 
Pale Autumn’s purple Crocus, seem 
Than other flowers more dear. 
I meet it on the cold bleak hill 
When sunshine there is none. 
And 'all the Summer darlings have 
Departed, every one, 
I look upon its outward form 
So delicate and frail; 
And wonder how so slight a thing 
May breast the boisterous gale. 
But it is humble; o’er its head 
The blast that rends the oak 
Passes all harmless, though the flower 
A fairy’s foot had broke. 
I gaze into its vase-like cup 
Of amethyst, where low 
A star of deep rich gold doth round 
Fling a wanii yellow glow. 
Hid from the spendthrift breeze, the flowers 
Their wealth all meekly keep. 
Till they who know the treasure’s worth 
The golden harvest reap.* 
* Saffron is made from the yellow anthers of the Autumn Crocus, 
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