Violets

 

And you know,

And I know,

That where the drifts of snow

Are growing sodden in the sun,

They feel a stir below;

And fettered streams eftsoons will run,

And violets will blow

Where we picked them days agone,

In ways that we do know,

 

After South

A red mouth

Is parting for a kiss,

And spring is tinting winter ways,

And roses away in bliss

And hold their half-oped buds aloft

To catch the tenderness

Of the South breeze; so wondrous soft

Each touch is a caress.

 

The weeds stand

A gaunt band,

Beneath a dull gray sky;

And all around the ground is white,

No green attracts the eye;

But from the blooming South a breeze,

With promises aglow,

Talks soft of daises to our knees,

And violets a-blow.

 

Oh, fair South!

Oh, glad South!

The where the spring is born!

That sends the warmth to rive our chains,

And perfumed winds of morn;

Fair are the gifts and good you send

To ways we used to know;

Soft greens and sweet perfumes to blend,

And violets to blow.

 

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