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?