  The Professor. Tell me, little violet white, If you will be so polite, Tell me how it came that you Lost your pretty purple hue? Were you blanched with sudden fears? Were you bleached with fairies’ tears? Or was Dame Nature out of blue, Violet, when she came to you? The Violet. Tell me, silly mortal, first, Ere I satisfy your thirst For the truth concerning me— Why you are not like a tree? Tell me why you move around, Trying different kinds of ground, With your funny legs and boots In the place of proper roots? Tell me, mortal, why your head, Where green branches ought to spread, Is as shiny smooth as glass, With just a fringe of frosty grass? Tell me—Why, he’s gone away! Wonder why he wouldn’t stay? Can he be—well, I declare!— Sensitive about his hair? |
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