The crocus, while the days are dark, Unfolds its saffron sheen; At April's touch, the crudest bark Discovers gems of green. Then sleep the seasons, full of might; While slowly swells the pod And rounds the peach, and in the night The mushroom bursts the sod. The Winter falls; the frozen rut Is bound with silver bars; The snow-drift heaps against the hut, And night is pierced with stars. |