The Crocus

Beneath the waning drifts of snow
And shattered bits of ice
There shifts the thawing earth below
And grows into a rise
A small and tender, quiet strength
A hope of life reborn
A driving force, a steep ascend
To find the light of morn
And there it shows its purple head
As if to mock the snow
Which melts into its flowerbed
And helps the crocus grow.