Out of the frozen earth below,
Out of the melting of the snow,
No flower, but a film, I push to light;
No stem, no bud, — yet I have burst
The bars of winter, I am the first,
O Sun, to greet thee out of the night!
Bare are the branches, cold is the air,
Yet it is fire at the heart I bear,
I come, a flame that is fed by none:
The summer hath blossoms for her delight,
Thick & dewy & waxen-white,
Thou seest me golden, O golden Sun!
Deep in the warm sleep underground
Life is still, & the peace profound:
Yet a beam that pierced, & a thrill that smote
Call'd me & drew me from far away; —
I rose, I came, to the open day
Have won, unshelter'd, alone, remote.
No bee strays out to greet me at morn,
I shall die ere the butterfly is born,
I shall hear no note of the nightingale;
The swallow will come at the break of green,
He will never know that I have been
Before him here when the world was pale.
They will follow, the rose with the thorny stem,
The hyacinth stalk, — soft airs for them;
They shall have strength, I have but love:
They shall not be tender as I,
— Yet I fought here first, to bloom, to die,
To shine in his face who shines above.
O Glory of heaven, O Ruler of morn,
O Dream that shap'd me, & I was born
In thy likeness, starry, & flower of flame;
I lie on the earth, & to thee look up,
Into thy image will grow my cup,
Till a sunbeam dissolve it into the same.
-The Crocus, Harriet Eleanor Hamilton-King(1840-1920)