My Violet
WHEN violets blue begin to blow
Among the mosses fresh and green,
That grow the woodbine roots between,
I take my Violet out, and, oh!
Those cunning violets seem to know
A sweeter than themselves is nigh;
They greet her with a beaming eye,
And brighten where her footsteps go.
When summer glories light the glade
With gloss of green and gleam of gold,
And sunny sheens in wood and wold,
She loves to linger in the shade;
And such sweet light surrounds the maid,
That, somehow, it is fairer far
Where she and those dim shadows are,
Than where the sunbeams are displayed.
When every tree relinquisheth
Its garb of green for sombre brown,
And all the leaves are falling down,
While breezes blow with angry breath,
With gentle pitying voice she saith,
“Poor leaves! I wish you would not die;”
And at the sound they peaceful lie,
And wear a pleasant calm in death.
When winter frosts hold land and sea,
And barren want and bleaker wind
Leave every thought of good behind,
I look upon my love, and she
From thrall of winter sets me free;
And with a sense of perfect rest
I lay my head upon her breast,
And twenty summers shine for me.
J. T. Burton Wollaston.