Song of the Violet
A humble flower long time I pined Upon the solitary plain, And trembled at the angry wind, And shrunk before the bitter rain. And oh! 'twas in a blessed hour A passing wanderer chanced to see, And, pitying the lonely flower, To stoop and gather me. I fear no more the tempest rude, On dreary heath no more I pine, But left my cheerless solitude, To deck the breast of Caroline. Alas our days are brief at best, Nor long I fear will mine endure, Though shelter'd here upon a breast So gentle and so pure. It draws the fragrance from my leaves, It robs me of my sweetest breath, And every time it falls and heaves, It warns me of my coming death. But one I know would glad forego All joys of life to be as I; An hour to rest on that sweet breast, And then, contented, die!
This poem is in the public domain.
About this Poem
From Ballads and Songs (London: Cassell and Company, 1896).
William Makepeace Thackeray
William Makepeace Thackeray, born July 18, 1811, was an English writer best known for his novels, particularly The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. (The Mershon Company Publishers, 1852) and Vanity Fair (Bradbury and Evans, 1848). While in school, Thackeray began writing poems, which he published in a number of magazines, chiefly Fraser and Punch. He died on December 24, 1863.
Date Published: 2018-07-11
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/song-violet