Fair Little Scout, That When The Iron Year Changes, And The First Fleecy Clouds Deploy, Comest With Such A Sudden Burst Of Joy, Lifting On Winter'S Doomed And Broken Rear That Song Of Silvery Triumph Blithe And Clear; Not Yet Quite Conscious Of The Happy Glow, We Hungered For Some Surer Touch, And Lo! One Morning We Awake, And Thou Art Here. And Thousands Of Frail-Stemmed Hepaticas, With Their Crisp Leaves And Pure And Perfect Hues, Light Sleepers, Ready For The Golden News, Spring At Thy Note Beside The Forest Ways - Next To Thy Song, The First To Deck The Hour - The Classic Lyrist And The Classic Flower.