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Little Violet.

She met me on the garden walk,
  Her bright eyes filled with mirth and glee,
And listening to her prattling talk,
  My childhood's days returned to me,
"And don't you know my name?" she said—
  "Why, no," I answered, "we've not met
Before, my charming little maid;"
  Then she replied, "I'm Violet."

"Indeed; well, that's a pretty name;"
  I wandered back to sunnier hours,
And little Violet became
  Far fairer than the other flowers
That grew around her where she stood—
  Each pansy, pink, and mignonette
Smiled sweetly at their sister bud,
  The tender little Violet.

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I gazed into her pure bright eyes,
  Where nestled childish innocence;
Then she, with look so very wise,
  Took me into her confidence,
And told me all her griefs and joys,
  How babies often scream and fret,
How brother robbed her of her toys,
  And broke the dolls of Violet.

How cherries grow upon a tree,
  How Grandpapa lived far away,
Where big ships swim across the sea,
  And she was going there to stay.
Youth's blossom made my heart its bower,
  But near it sprang the weed—regret;
I plucked the weed and kept the flower,
  And called it—Mem'ry's Violet.

There's rapture in the blithesome time
  When love inhales young passion's breath—
The poet's is a joy sublime,
  The Christian's happiness is—death.
But in pure childhood's thoughtless bliss,
  A taste of Heaven and earth we get—
More of the other life than this,
  Earth's angels are like Violets.