The spring is come: the violet’s gone,
The first-born child of the early sun;
With us she is but a winter flower,
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower--
And she lifts up her head of dewy blue
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.
And when the spring comes with her host
Of flowers--that flower beloved the most,
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse
Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.
Pluck the others, but still remember
Their herald out of dim December--
The morning star of all the flowers,
The pledge of daylight’s lengthened hours.
Nor, midst the roses, e’er forget
The virgin--virgin violet.
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