Violet, sweet violet,
Of modest, dainty grace,
Why dost thou hide among the grass
Thy pretty velvet face?
Thine eyes are filled with dew, thy breath
Makes sweet the air of spring;
Thy whispers low, sweet memories
Of other springtimes bring.
Sweet olden, golden springtimes,
When bluebirds sang so gay,
As I plucked thy sister blossoms
From a woodland far away,
With her, whose eyes, in color,
Sweet flow'r, were just like you,
And like you grew in radiance
From drinking heaven's blue.
Each spring, as lisping children,
As romping schoolgirls, too,
Our feet were bathed in violet banks
That dripped with melting dew;
Our souls were bathed in bliss divine,
As all day long we basked
In sweet and fragrant winds we knew
Had kissed them as they passed.
But when the summer sun shone hot,
Their slender stems were dried;
Their modest heads bent lower, and
Their fragrant blossoms died;
And could we pierce to-day the blue
Of heaven's dome so fair,
Methinks we'd see them blooming in
Celestial glory there!
Culled by our angel Emma,
In a rapturous clime, that lies
In the radiant, springtime glory
Of the fields of Paradise!