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!