In spring returning hour
 

We scooped the earth away, And buried deep the wow gold 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 wow gold flower, And angel-like it shall arise In spring's returning hour." Ah, deeper down cold, dark, wow gold and chill We buried our heart's flower, But angel-like shall he arise cheap wow goldIn 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 wow gold hair. Not for a fading summer's morn, Not for a fleeting hour,