To A Wild Violet, In March.
My pretty flower, How cam'st thou here? Around thee all Is sad and sere, The brown leaves tell Of winter's breath, And all but thou Of doom and death. The naked forest Shivering sighs, On yonder hill The snow-wreath lies, And all is bleak Then say, sweet flower, Whence cam'st thou here In such an hour? No tree unfolds its timid bud Chill pours the hill-side's lurid flood The tuneless forest all is dumb Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come? Spring hath not scattered yet her flowers, But lingers still in southern bowers; No gardener's art hath cherished thee, For wild and lone thou springest free. Thou springest here to man unknown, Waked into life by God alone! Sweet flower thou tellest well thy birth, Thou cam'st from Heaven, though soiled in earth!
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"My pretty flower,..."
"To A Wild Violet, In March." is a quintessential example of Samuel Griswold Goodrich's signature style... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...