Classic Poem

Wood Violets

Violets , my violets,
Springing from the mould,
From the star-grass and the mosses
Of the woodland dim and old;
Sweet the stories you are telling
Of the fading, happy years,
When the loves were young that vanished
Long ago in mists and tears.

Violets, my violets,
Gazing, I a moment go
Where the moist sweet woody odors
All around me breathe and blow;
Where the bluebells dip their clusters,
And the purple orchids hide;
And, with heart grown strangely happy,
Fling my burdens all aside.

Violets, my violets,
There was once a child that flew
Through the depths of field and forest,
Searching patiently for you;
And that child who now so wearies
Of the fairest thing that grows,
Once grew wild with rapture finding
But a single woodland rose.

Violets, my violets,
If you knew how dark and chill
All our fair young world is growing,
Could you bloom so lovely still?
Could you waken hopes that, flying,
Swiftly fall with broken wings,
If you knew a time of dying
Stills the sweetest voice that sings?

Violets, my violets,
It is but a little boon:
Bend your kindly eyes above me,
When I go, or late, or soon;
And perchance some sad one going
Through the forests of the dead,
Shall remember where I'm sleeping,
By the violets at my head.English