To the Coming Flowers

Unknown early 20th Century Irish Poet

Awake, dear sleepers, from your wintry tombs;

The sun has turned the point of Capricorn,

And ‘gins to pluck from Winter’s wings the plumes

SnowdropsOf darkness, and to wind his silver horn

For your return. Come to your homes, forlorn

In absence of your odours and your faces;

Like Rachel weeps for you the reaved morn,

As often as she views your empty places,

Erewhile the daily scene of her and your embraces.

crocusCome, pensile snowdrop, like the earliest star

That twinkles on the brow of dusky Night;

Come, like the child that peeps from door ajar,

With pallid cheek, upon a wasteful sight:

And shouldst thou rise when all around is white,

The more thou’lt demonstrate the power of God

To shield the weak against the arms of might,

To strengthen feeble shoulders for their load,

And sinking hearts ‘mid ills they could not full forebode.

Come, crocus cup, the cup where early bees

lilySip the first nectar of the liberal year,

Come and illume our green, as similes

Light up the poet’s song. And O ye dear

March violets, come near, come breathing near!

You too, fair primroses, in darksome woods

Shine forth, like heaven’s constellations clear;

And come, ye daisies, throng in multitudes,

And whiten hills and meadows with your saintly hoods.

Come with thy lilies, May; thy roses, June;

Come with your richer hues, Autumnal hours;

FoxgloveO tell your mellowing sun, your regal moon,

Your dewy drops, your soft refreshing showers,

To lift their blessing hands in Flora’s bowers,

Nor e’en to scorn the bindweed’s flossy gold,

Nor foxglove’s banner hung with purple flowers,

Nor solitary heath that cheers the wold,

Nor the last daisy shivering in November’s cold!

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