Lo, here the self-same hope of ancient springs,
To meek arbutus-hearts doth first appear;
And joyous border-realms of budding things
Resurgent, conquer winter's grim frontier:
These floral pilgrims, perfume-shod and shy.
From snow-wrapt slopes breathe tribute to the sky.
Thus ever do earth's sandal-shod and meek
Pass, pilgrim-wise, from fear to Life's intern,
In blowing-trine their fragrant lives bespeak
Their all of gentle knowing, heaven-spent;
And worlds of timid blooms they early bring
To fonts of light, — Love's sacramental spring.
