Crocus, Squirrels, and Winter Evenings: The Many Seasons of Bernard Barton

January 31, 1784

On this day, Bernard Barton, England's celebrated Quaker poet, was born.

His words glow with the quiet strength of a spring garden awakening after a frosted sleep.

For every true gardener and poetic soul, Barton's verses are a delight—a gentle reminder to look beyond the obvious bloom and cherish the miraculous promise in every bud and burrow.

With a flourish worthy of any flower lover, allow this narrator to point you directly to Barton's crocus—his "wild harbinger of Spring."

The crocus, often overlooked amidst grander lilies and roses, is a gardener’s first confetti: a burst of color after the garden’s long hush. Its significance?

Not just a simple bloom, but an emblem of hope that every grey day will someday yield to honeyed sunlight. Bernard Barton captured this marvel exquisitely:

Welcome! Wild harbinger of Spring,
To this small nook of earth;
Feeling and fancy fondly cling
Round thoughts which owe their birth
To thee, and to the humble spot
Where chance has fixed thy lowly lot.
Yet not the Lily nor the Rose,
Though fairer far they be,
Can more delightful thoughts disclose,
Than I derive from thee.
The eye their beauty may prefer,
The heart is thy interpreter.
Thy flower foretells a summer sky,
And chides the dark despair
By winter's chilling influence flung
O'er spirits sunk, and nerves unstrung.

To the modern garden mind, this poem feels like the very first trowel in the soil after a frozen winter—a call to remember that the garden’s smallest actors often play the most heroic roles.

The crocus, humble yet radiant, delivers a message straight from Barton’s heart: bloom where you are planted, for your joy is contagious, your resilience inspirational.

Barton also showed a keen, playful wit when he turned his pen to “The Squirrel,” a lesson in garden wisdom wrapped in a child’s rhyme.

Imagine, if you will, two young brothers watching a squirrel—one caught up in boyish delight, the other pondering the practicalities of squirrel life.

The dialogue sparkles, and the lesson is as relevant to gardeners as it is to children:

The squirrel is happy, the squirrel is gay,
Little Henry exclaimed to his brother,
He has nothing to do or to think of but play,
And to jump from one bough to another.
But William was older and wiser and knew
That all play and no work wouldn't answer,
So he asked what the squirrel in winter must do,
If he spent all the summer a dancer.
The squirrel, dear Harry, is merry and wise,
For true wisdom and mirth go together ;
He lays up in summer his winter supplies,
And then he don't mind the cold weather.

Here, Barton’s squirrel becomes every gardener’s spirit animal—a merry soul who knows that a little hard work in the warm months ensures cozy security when the garden folds under frost.

Wisdom and joy, hand in hand, prancing across the seasons!

Finally, in "Winter Evenings," Barton offers comfort for the gardener’s soul during the darker months.

As the wind howls and clouds gather, he assures us that the soul’s sunshine endures, fed by beauty, history, and the stories we share.

It's a perfect fireside reflection for anyone longing for spring’s first shoots:

The summer is over,
The autumn is passed,
Dark clouds over us hover,
Loud whistles the blast ;
But clouds cannot darken,
nor tempest destroy
The soul's sweetest sunshine,
the heart's purest joy.
Our path is no bright one,
From morning till eve ;
Our task is no light one,
Till day takes its leave :
We'll turn to the pages
Of history's lore ;
Of bards and of sages
The beauties explore :
And share o'er the records we love to unroll
The " feast of the reason and flow of the soul."

So, dear gardeners, let Barton’s words warm you like afternoon sun on an April border.

Tend your plants and your spirit with equal care. Let hope be perennial.

And when the wind whistles or the squirrel leaps from branch to branch, remember: every garden—and every gardener—holds a story the world needs to hear.