THE YELLOW VIOLET

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When beechen buds begin to swell,
      And woods the blue-bird's warble know,
The yellow violet's modest bell
      Peeps from last-year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
      Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
      Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
      First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming
      Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
      Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
      And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
      And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,
      When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,
      Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May
      I passed thee on thy humple stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
      The friends in darker fortunes tried;
I copied them - but I regret
      That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
      Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I'll not o'er look the modest flower
      That made the woods of April bright.

1815

© William Cullen Bryant
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© E-publisher LiterNet, 14.02.2009
The Sun Is but a Morning Star. Anthology of American Literature. Edited by Albena Bakratcheva. Varna: LiterNet, 2008-2010