The Yellow Violet

When beechen buds begin to swell,And woods the blue-bird’s warble know,The yellow violet’s modest bellPeeps from the last year’s leaves below.Ere russet fields their green resume,Sweet flower! I love in forest bare,To meet thee, when thy faint perfumeAlone is in the virgin air.Of all her train, the hands of SpringFirst plant thee in the watery mould;And I have seen thee blossomingBeside the snow-bank’s edges cold.Thy Parent Sun, who bade thee viewPale skies, and chilling moisture sip,Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,And streak’d 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, in the sunless April day,Thy early smile has staid my walk;But midst the gorgeous blooms of MayI pass’d thee on thy humble stalk.So they, who climb to wealth, forgetThe friends in darker fortunes tried;I copied them—but I regretThat I should ape the ways of pride.And when again the genial hourAwakes the painted tribes of light,I’ll not o’erlook the modest flowerThat made the woods of April bright.