 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
44
THE VIOLET.
A poet loved a violet—and he thought“The purple is in bud: it is not blown;
'Twas only yesterday that it was sown,
And but the day before the plot was bought;”
And so he turned his heart aside, and sought
To buy a vase wherein the flower grown
To perfect beauty for his very own
He might have, and his hands a marvel wrought,
A many-coloured, cunning, carven glass,
Choice, set with jewels, painted by his pen,
Sides gilt with some sweet poem now and then,
And he had set it down upon the grass
Beside the violet—when a shower alas!
A hail-storm, shattered it in seconds ten.
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