VIOLETS
Mignon, you love the myrtle and the rose,
The lily, all the flowers which grace the close
Of queenly Nature’s Eden; love them well,
For there are mysteries more than man can tell
Deep-hidden in their perfumed censers, dear,
And music unknown to the human ear
In their harmonious scales of varied hues—
Crimson imperial and eastern blues,
Emerald, and sheeny ors, and glittering steel—
Still more for those who have a soul to feel
The breath of love which is of beauty born.
Bright flowers, bejewelled with the dew of morn,
As you are sweet and pure; and God, I trow,
Took of the new-born violet’s deepest glow
To make the wonder of your tender eyes.