The Book of the Native

by Charles G.D. Roberts


The Jonquil


Through its brown and withered bulb
    How the white germ felt the sun
In the dark mould gently stirring
    His Spring children one by one!

Thrilled with heat, it split the husk,

    Shot a green blade up to light,
And unfurled its orange petals
    In the old Enchanter’s sight.

One step more and it had floated
    On the palpitating noon

Winged and free, a butterfly
    Soaring from the rent cocoon.

But it could not leave its earth,
    And the May-dew’s tender tears,—
So it wavers there forever

    ’Twixt the green and azure spheres.