The Song Sparrow

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.