Violet, sweet violet,

Of modest, dainty grace,

Why dost thou hide among the grass

Thy pretty velvet face?

Thine eyes are filled with dew, thy breath

Makes sweet the air of spring;

Thy whispers low, sweet memories

Of other springtimes bring.

Sweet olden, golden springtimes,

When bluebirds sang so gay,

As I plucked thy sister blossoms

From a woodland far away,

With her, whose eyes, in color,

Sweet flow'r, were just like you,

And like you grew in radiance

Each spring, as lisping children,

As romping schoolgirls, too,

Our feet were bathed in violet banks

That dripped with melting dew;

Our souls were bathed in bliss divine,

As all day long we basked

In sweet and fragrant winds we knew

Had kissed them as they passed.

But when the summer sun shone hot,

Their slender stems were dried;

Their modest heads bent lower, and

Their fragrant blossoms died;

And could we pierce to-day the blue

Of heaven's dome so fair,

Methinks we'd see them blooming in

Celestial glory there!

Culled by our angel Emma,

In a rapturous clime, that lies

In the radiant, springtime glory

Of the fields of Paradise!