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I wonder what spendthrift chose to spill
Such bright gold under my window-sill!
Is it fairy gold? Does it glitter still?
Bless me! it is but a daffodil!
And look at the crocus keeping tryst
With the daffodil by the sunshine kissed.
Like beautiful bubbles of amethyst
They seem, blown out of the earth's snow-mist.
And snowdrops' delicate fairy bells
With a pale green tint like the ocean swells;
And the hyacinths wearing their perfumed spells!
The ground is a rainbow of asphodels!
Who said that March was a scold and a shrew?
Who said she had nothing on earth to do
But tempest of fairies and rags to brew?
Why, look at the wealth she has lavished on you!
O March that blusters and March that blows,
What color under your footsteps glows!
Beauty you summon from winter snows,
And you are the pathway that leads to the rose.
—Celia Thaxter.
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