  A very little child, one day, Too young to know the harm it did, Trampled, with his small naked foot, The place in which a violet hid. The violet sighed its life away, Embalming, with its last faint breath, The little foot, that thus, in play, Had put its soft, blue flower to death. Ah, was it not a tender flower, To lavish all the wealth it had, Its fragrance, in its dying hour, Mild, meek, forgiving, mute, though sad. My little girl, the lesson learn; Be thou the violet—love thou so; Retort no wrong; but nobly turn, And with thy heart’s wealth bless thy foe. Snow Drop. |
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