Nothing is more certain than the flower— 
and best, sometimes, are those
that start into blossom directly from
the harshness of bare gardens—the crocus 
breaking through, narcissi heaving 
a trampled place, and I saw once 
jonquils, forgotten, buried under
a new driveway, covered with broken 
stone
but still unsuppressed, rising still
into a graceful flower-head—