I'm a columnist originating from Minnesota but residing in Germany. I write about historic bridges on both sides of the pond as well as current events and cultural topics in the US and Germany/Europe.

 
 

The Crocus by Harriet Beecher Stowe

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When it comes to spring time, we intend to look for the first signs for they play a role in us determining when to start planting the next crops, when to get the lawn furniture and grill out, and when to put away the winter gear. It may be the first Thunderstorm or rainfall. It may be based on Phil seeing his shadow on Groundhog Day (2 February). But it could also be based on the first wild plants that rise within the snow.

In Germany and other parts of Europe and North America, we have two different flowers that are the first to bloom and the first key indicators of spring's arrival. The first one, as seen in the photo above is the crocus. They usually appear in February or March, but covering the lawns and prairies like a carpet with colors of blue, pink, lilac and yellow. These crocuses grow together with another flower, the white-colored snowdrops, and they provide passers-by with some picturesque views of lawns that start off green and brown, but are painted with wonderful colors, all of which symbolize something new.

This genre is a poem that was written by Harriet Beecher Stowe, the same American author who wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin, which looked at slavery and discrimination. The title is the same as the flower itself. And how she describes the crocus, speaks for itself. Sit back and enjoy this poem.

Beneath the sunny autumn sky,
With gold leaves dropping round,
We sought, my little friend and I,
The consecrated ground,
Where, calm beneath the holy cross,
O'ershadowed by sweet skies,
Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form,
Those blue unclouded eyes.

Around the soft, green swelling mound
We scooped the earth away,
And buried deep the crocus-bulbs
Against a coming day.
'These roots are dry, and brown, and sere;
Why plant them here?' he said,
'To leave them, all the winter long,
So desolate and dead.'

'Dear child, within each sere dead form
There sleeps a living flower,
And angel-like it shall arise
In spring's returning hour.'
Ah, deeper down — cold, dark, and chill —
We buried our heart's flower,
But angel-like shall he arise
In spring's immortal hour.

In blue and yellow from its grave
Springs up the crocus fair,
And God shall raise those bright blue eyes,
Those sunny waves of hair.
Not for a fading summer's morn,
Not for a fleeting hour,
But for an endless age of bliss,
Shall rise our heart's dear flower.

Link: https://flensburgerfiles.wordpress.com/2019/03/14/the-crocus-by-harriet-beecher-stowe/

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