THE SONG SPARROW

Fair little scout, that when the iron year

Changes, and the first fleecy clouds deploy,

Comest with such a sudden burst of joy,

Lifting on winter's doomed and broken rear

That song of silvery triumph blithe and clear;

Not yet quite conscious of the happy glow,

We hungered for some surer touch, and lo!

One morning we awake, and thou art here.

And thousands of frail-stemmed hepaticas,

With their crisp leaves and pure and perfect hues,

Light sleepers, ready for the golden news,

Spring at thy note beside the forest ways —

Next to thy song, the first to deck the hour —

The classic lyrist and the classic flower.