Dear first-born of the year,
Timidly peeping forth from the cold ground
When all the earth is drear,—
Ere Winter hath done grieving for the loss
Of her fair jewels strung on bush and tree,
Or ere the golden sunlight hath unbound
The frozen streams—what joy it is to see
Thy blue eye looking upward from the sod,
Moistened with dew, as in mute prayer to God,
Pleading for leafless trees and withered flowers
That have lain buried through the wintry hours.
Thy prayer is answered now,
For Spring hath cast her mantle o'er the earth,
Clothing each naked bough
With the new glories of a second birth;
The sturdy evergreens that all the year
Have worn their honors, put forth fresher green,
And in among their darker tints is seen
The maple's flush,—and everywhere appear,
In fields and wildwood paths, the delicate flowers
That herald Summer's warm and pleasant hours.
So Hope within my breast,
Like this blue violet grew when I saw thee,
And straightway I was blessed,
And life's cold winter passed for aye from me.
The streams of feeling now are locked no more,
But flow to thee, their ocean, day and night;
And in the garden of my heart, like flowers,
Sweet thoughts of thee arc growing with the hours
That each day brings:—the violet blooms there,
And the dear heart's case, ever fresh and fair!