CROCUS BUDS, HARBINGERS OF SPRING.

When first the crocus thrusts its point of goldUp through the still snow-drifted garden mould,And folded green things in dim woods uncloseTheir crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goesInto my veins and makes me kith and kinTo every wild-born thing that thrills and blows.Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire,Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din,Far from the brambly paths I used to know,Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shineWhere the Neponset alders take their glow,I share the tremulous sense of bud and briarAnd inarticulate ardors of the vine. Thomas Bailey Aldrich