THE YELLOW VIOLET.
When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird’s warble know,
The yellow violet’s modest bell
Peeps 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 perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.
Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mould;
And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold.
Thy Parent Sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streak’d with jet thy glowing lip.
