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To M. O.
DEATH-WHITE azaleas watched beside my bed, | |
| And tried to tell me tales of Southern lands; | |
| But they in hothouse air were born and bred, | |
| And they were gathered by a stranger’s hands: | |
| They were not sweet, they never had been free, | 5 |
| And all their pallid beauty had no voice for me. | |
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| And all I longed for was one common flower | |
| Fed by soft mists and rainy English air, | |
| A flower that knew the woods, the leafless bower, | |
| The wet, green moss, the hedges sharp and bare— | 10 |
| A flower that spoke my language, and could tell | |
| Of all the woods and ways my heart remembers well. | |
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| Then came your violets—and at once I heard | |
| The sparrows chatter on the dripping eaves, | |
| The full stream’s babbling inarticulate word, | 15 |
| The plash of rain on big wet ivy-leaves; | |
| I saw the woods where thick the dead leaves lie, | |
| And smelt the fresh earth’s scent—the scent of memory. | |
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| The unleafed trees—the lichens green and gray, | |
| The wide sad-coloured meadows, and the brown | 20 |
| Fields that sleep now, and dream of harvest day, | |
| Hiding their seeds like hopes in hearts pent down— | |
| A thousand dreams, a thousand memories | |
| Your violets’ voices breathed in unheard melodies— | |
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| Unheard by all but me. I heard, I blessed | 25 |
| The little English, English-speaking things | |
| For their sweet selves that laid my wish to rest, | |
| For their sweet help that lent my dreaming wings; | |
| And, most of all, for all the thoughts of you | |
| Which make them smell more sweet than other violets do. | 30 |
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