CrocusPosted: April 7, 2015
Photo: dievca, Crocuses in the Bronx NYC
There is something tucked away in every submissive who has not found their Dominant. A piece of beauty hidden from the light, waiting to be uncovered. If the right conditions are found, that beauty begins to grow and glow, taking over the body in a flash of incandescence for their Master and then for the World.
The submissive has found what it means to be free.
by: Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811-1896)
ENEATH 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.
“The Crocus” is reprinted from The Independent, February 18, 1858.