Toggle Dropdown Serif Sans-serif Monospaced Dyslexic Bold Italic Font size: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 Mark as read [object Object] Only page of title 113 11 Very Easy 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? End of title Sign in to unlock this title Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit. Links External resources bookshop Wikipedia Project Gutenberg Goodreads Google Books
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?
