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The Crocuses
They heard the South wind sighing
A murmur of the rain;
And they knew that Earth was longing
To see them all again.
While the snow-drops still were sleeping
Beneath the silent sod;
They felt their new life pulsing
Within the dark, cold clod.
Not a daffodil nor daisy
Had dared to raise its head;
Not a fairhaired dandelion
Peeped timid from its bed;
Though a tremor of the winter
Did shivering through them run;
Yet they lifted up their foreheads
To greet the vernal sun.
And the sunbeams gave them welcome,
As did the morning air—
And scattered o’er their simple robes
Rich tints of beauty rare.
Soon a host of lovely flowers
From vales and woodland burst;
But in all that fair procession
The crocuses were first.
First to weave for Earth a chaplet
To crown her dear old head;
And to beauty the pathway
Where winter still did tread.
And their loved and white haired mother
Smiled sweetly ’neath the touch,
When she knew her faithful children
Were loving her so much.
Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, 1825 –1911
Hart in Nehmen sind sie diese allerersten Krokusse, noch weit vor den ersten Schneeglöckchen. Nur die Zaubernuss ist auch schon wach und die ersten Spitzen der Zwergiris schauen schon mal vorsichtig heraus.
Es regnet arg viel in diesem Winter und tut es immer noch. Kein Wunder, dass die Pegel unserer vielen Flüsse schon wieder hoch stehen. Das hier ist die Fuhse, die sich weit über die umliegenden Felder ausgedehnt hat.
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