A Belated Violet

Oliver Herford (1863–1935)

VERY dark the autumn sky,

Dark the clouds that hurried by;

Very rough the autumn breeze

Shouting rudely to the trees.

Listening, frightened, pale, and cold,

Through the withered leaves and mold

Peered a violet all in dread—

“Where, oh, where is spring?” she said.

Sighed the trees, “Poor little thing!

She may call in vain for spring.”

And the grasses whispered low,

“We must never let her know.”

“What ’s this whispering?” roared the breeze;

“Hush! a violet,” sobbed the trees,

“Thinks it ’s spring,—poor child, we fear

She will die if she should hear!”

Softly stole the wind away,

Tenderly he murmured, “Stay!”

To a late thrush on the wing,

“Stay with her one day and sing!”

Sang the thrush so sweet and clear

That the sun came out to hear,

And, in answer to her song,

Beamed on violet all day long;

And the last leaves here and there

Fluttered with a spring-like air.

Then the violet raised her head,—

“Spring has come at last!” she said.

Happy dreams had violet

All that night—but happier yet,

When the dawn came dark with snow,

Violet never woke to know.