On a Wild Violet

Thou lovely flower ! child of the wilderness,
Giving thy sweetness to the desert's breath,
Thou art like virtue in this world of death.
In bower or garden we should love thee less
Than in this wild, uncherished solitude.
Where nought were beautiful, wert thou not good,
Yea ! lovely to the sight.
Thou art too fair
For dews to nurture long, or winds to spare.
Thou art so chaste in thy wild innocence
That it were half profane to tear thee hence.
But heaven's best gifts and earth's least mortal flowers
Soon fall to dust in this strange world of ours !