WHENEVER, betimes, the warm winds blow And drive underground the lingering snow; Whenever, amid such breathing space, The brown earth raises a wistful face -- Whenever about the fields I go, The soul of the violet haunts me so! I look -- there is never a leaf to be seen; In the pleached grass is no thread of green; But I walk as one who would chide his feet Lest they trample the hope of something sweet! Here can no flower be blooming, I know -- Yet the soul of the violet haunts me so! Again and again that thrilling breath, Fresh as the life that is snatched out of death, Keen as the blow that Love might deal Lest a spirit in trance should outward steal -- So thrilling that breath, so vital that blow -- The soul of the violet haunts me so! Is it the blossom that slumbers as yet Under the leaf-mould dank and wet, And visits in dreams the wondering air Whereof the passing sweetness I share? Or is it the flower shed long ago? The soul of the violet haunts me so! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TONE PICTURE (MALIPIERO: IMPRESSONI DAL VERO) by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER PARTING AT MORNING by ROBERT BROWNING THE IMMORTAL MIND by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE WAKING YEAR by EMILY DICKINSON BEDTIME by FRANCIS ROBERT ST. CLAIR ERSKINE THE WORLD: A CHILD'S SONG by WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS CALIFORNIA RAIN by MARGERY AILYN BISHOP |