  My pretty flower, How cam'st thou here? Around thee all Is sad and sere,— The brown leaves tell Of winter's breath, And all but thou Of doom and death. The naked forest Shivering sighs,— On yonder hill The snow-wreath lies, And all is bleak— Then say, sweet flower, Whence cam'st thou here In such an hour? No tree unfolds its Timid bud— Chill pours the hill-side's Lurid flood— The tuneless forest All is dumb— Whence then, fair violet, Didst thou come? | To a Wild Violet, in March |
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