The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea-violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind among the torn shells on the sand-bank. The greater blue violets flutter on the hill, but who would change for these who would change for these one root of the white sort? Violet your grasp is frail on the edge of the sand-hill, but you catch the light -- frost, a star edges with its fire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A WINTER PIECE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT GROWN-UP by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY REFUGE by WILLIAM HERVEY ALLEN JR. AH, BIND MY HANDS by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS SONG OF THE SERPENT-CHARMERS by EDWIN ARNOLD CASTLES OF THE SEA by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 26 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |