Violets

Violets, in what pleasant earth you grew I know not, nor what heavenly moisture stole To tincture in your petals such dim blue As seems a pure June midnight's scented soul: But on her bosom when you breathed so sweet, You were as lovely words to thoughts that rose So deep in us, no language could complete Their sense, nor half their tenderness unclose. Love in such thoughts forever freshly flowers. They neither ask nor answer, only give Their charm up to the kind and unkind hours, Born of that beauty in whose light we live, Whose grace is past all probing of our wit And sweetens even the hand that bruises it.