A kind voice calls, 'come little ones', 'tis time to wake from sleeping
And out of bed without a word, the drowsy folk come creeping
And soon above the chilly earth, their tiny heads are peeping.
They bravely face the wind of March, its bite and bluster scorning
Like little soldiers, till oh joy, with scarce a word of warning
The crocuses slip off their caps, and give us gay good morning.
Anna M Platt