The Yellow Violet

When beechen buds begin to swell, 

And woods the blue-bird’s warble know,

The yellow violet’s modest bell 

Peeps from the last year’s leaves are below. 

Ere russet fields their green resume, 

Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,

To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 

Alone is in the virgin air. 

Of all her train, the hands of Spring 

First, plant thee in the watery mould,

And I have seen thee blossoming 

Besides the snowbank’s edges were cold. 

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,

Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, 

And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 

And earthward bent thy gentle eye,

Unapt the passing view to meet When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. 

Oft, on the sunless April day, 

Thy early smile has stayed my walk;

But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,

 I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 

So they, who climb to wealth, forget 

The friends in darker fortunes tried.

I copied them—but I regret 

That I should ape the ways of pride. 

And when again the genial hour

 Awakes the painted tribes of light,

I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower 

That made the woods of April bright.