WOOD VIOLETS.
Reading edition
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BY ALICE B. NEAL.
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The violets are growing thickly in Washington Square, early as it is. The gates are not yet open, but many linger by the high railing to catch a glimpse of these “Spring Beauties.” Letters from Philadelphia.
Those purple clustering violets
Hiding beneath the grass!
How many pause to look on them
Who by their covert pass.
Many a care-worn face is pressed
Close to the iron gate,
Heedless if at their daily toil
They shall be counted late.
The trembling lips—the starting tears—
Ah me! what yearning thought
The simple wild-wood violets
To these lone hearts have brought.
Visions of childhood’s careless time
When like the flowers they grew,
Dwellers beside the singing brook—
Beneath a sky as blue.
How lightly trod their tiny feet
Upon the velvet moss,
How gayly sprang from stone to stone
The little brook across.
What shouts of eager laughter rose,
As, bending to the stream,
They found the violets, betrayed
By their deep azure gleam.
The soughing of the dark pine trees,
The fresh sweet breath of Spring—
The even song of low-voiced birds,
All these those blossoms bring.
And wearily the sons of toil
Turn from this haunted spot,
Haunted by scenes of joy and hope
For many years forgot.
They go more slowly on their way,
Nor heed the city’s din,
The heavy eyelids as they close
Press back the tears within.
For once wood violets had grown
In their own garden bowers,
But now, alas! how rarely bloom
For them fresh wayside flowers!