THE CROCUS—CHILDHOOD. 
11 
’ rpiS February’s changeful mood, 
When eve to morn is seldom true, 
And day which broke gusty and rude, 
Oft shuts in skies of softest hue: 
In mild repose that sun goes down, 
The next comes up with murky frown ; 
But scarce hath tolled the hour of day, 
When glittering roll those frowns away, 
Even now with saffron-veiled head, 
Half-timid and half venturesome, 
Answering Spring’s first call overhead, 
The Crocus hails her time to come ; 
For she is not the delicate, 
Who shrinks from aught may fit her state, 
But wears a cheerful, hardy brow, 
Glad combatant of frost and snow. 
Yet prudent are her ways the while, 
Both warmth and tempests to foresee, 
Nor will she, save the clear heaven’s smile, 
Ope her red cargo to the bee : 
In vain the errant creature comes, 
And round the fast-closed clusters hums, 
Till first the sun, with kindly rays, 
Bids her light up her joyous blaze. 
HERE have you been, my blue-eyed elf? 
Ransacking all Nature’s pelf, 
To dress out that little self? 
Those locks so fine,— 
You stole them from the silk-worm’s shelf, 
All his gold mine. 
For lips you robb’d the vermeil’s dyes, 
Those eyes you stole from summer skies, 
That laughing sprite that ’neath them lies 
Beyond bright even; 
That innocence of your blue eyes 
You brought from heaven. 
. R. 
