  All radiant was the garden with choice and precious flowers; Rare blossoms in their “houses” enwove resplendent bowers. They were the rich man’s treasures, he gave them every care, And yet the dew of heaven could never reach them there. They did not feel the raindrops, or sunshine warmly bright, Nor winced beneath the dangers of a cold and frosty night. A gardener’s hand had planted each flower with dainty skill. Now outside in the meadow, a modest violet grew, And no one ever watched it, for no one ever knew; Still there it lived and flourished, and scent of flowerets small Was carried by the breezes across the high stone wall. It reached the great man’s window, was wafted thro’ the door, And made the air seem fresher than ever it was before. It reached the great man’s heart, too, and whispered in his ear, To tell a loving message, in accents sweet and clear. He saw once more his birthplace and childhood’s happy years; ’Tis not a vision only, the brain both sees and hears. There stands the old white cottage, long vanished from his sight, He feels the cool wind blowing across the fields at night. He seemed to see reflected the man he might have been. He sighed, “O gentle violet, so tender and so true! Of all my rich collection, not one compares with you. Your coming here has taught me, how I may walk each day, The paths where you are lovely in your sweet simple way.” |
|
