Who looked for thee, thou little song of mine? This winter of a silent poet's heart Is suddenly sweet with thee, but what thou art, Mid-winter flower, I would I could divine.
Art thou a last one, orphan of thy line? Did the dead summer's last warmth foster thee? Or is Spring folded up unguessed in me, And stirring out of sight, -- and thou the sign?
Where shall I look -- backwards or to the morrow For others of thy fragrance, secret child? Who knows if last things or if first things claim thee?
-- Whether thou be the last smile of my sorrow, Or else a joy too sweet, a joy too wild? How, my December violet, shall I name thee?
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