When beechen buds begin to swell, <br />And woods the blue-bird's warble know, <br />The yellow violet's modest bell <br />Peeps from last-year's leaves below. <br /> <br />Ere russet fields their green resume, <br />Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, <br />To meet thee, when thy faint perfume <br />Alone is in the virgin air. <br /> <br />Of all her train, the hands of Spring <br />First plant thee in the watery mould, <br />And I have seen thee blossoming <br />Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. <br /> <br />Thy parent sun, who bade thee view <br />Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip <br />Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, <br />And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. <br /> <br />Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, <br />And earthward bent thy gentle eye, <br />Unapt the passing view to meet, <br />When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. <br /> <br />Oft, in the sunless April day, <br />Thy early smile has stayed my walk; <br />But midst the gorgeous blooms of May <br />I passed thee on thy humple stalk. <br /> <br />So they, who climb to wealth, forget <br />The friends in darker fortunes tried; <br />I copied them--but I regret <br />That I should ape the ways of pride. <br /> <br />And when again the genial hour <br />Awakes the painted tribes of light, <br />I'll not o'er look the modest flower <br />That made the woods of April bright.<br /><br />William Cullen Bryant<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-yellow-violet/
