You are the first wild violet of the year;
Young grass you are, and apple-bloom, and spray
Of honeysuckle; you are dawn of day.
And the first snow-fall! It is you I hear
When the March robin calls me loud and clear.
Or lonely rill goes singing on its way
Like some small flute of heav'n; or when the gray
Sad wood-dove calls and early stars appear.
And you it is within the wayside shrine
Carved tenderly; and in the folded wings
On some neglected tomb; and in the vine
And leaf and saint of old imaginings
On some forgotten missal, little things
We would not barter for things more divine!
The Lesser Beauty.
Margaret Steele Anderson
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