The Crocus
by Arlo Bates

Brave crocus, out of time and rash,
You come when skies are all amort and chill ;
Too soon to find how cruel hail can dash,
And bitter winds can kill.

You are like early loves, most sure,
Which die so soon in this world’s nipping air ;
Your mission like to theirs, not to endure,
But to make springtime fair.