Don't judge me too harshly...
with little else showing their colors,
I'm thankful for the sweet delicate lavenders of the wild violets
growing by invitation in a few of my beds.
Yes, I know their greedy habits.
Still I'm a sucker for their early and flagrant beauty.
By Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson
I had not thought of violets late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.
The thought of violets meant florists' shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines.
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made,—
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.
And now—unwittingly, you've made me dream
Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.