- I FOUND, within a sheltered dell,
- A lowly little flower;
- Yet loved it more than proudest rose
- That blooms in garden bower.
- As if to guard it from all harm,
- Its tiny cup was set
- Within a bed of softest moss—
- 'Twas the sweet white violet.
- And freely forth on every breeze
- Its rich perfume was cast,
- As, nestled in its little cell,
- It blessed me as I passed.
- I would my lot might be like thine,
- O sweet and gentle flower!
- In such a home of peace and love
- To wait my life's last hour.
- A mind too lowly for storms to move,
- I'd have, bright flower! from thee;
- And pure as thine own stainless cup
- I would my heart might be.
- And that my soul might then be filled,
- Should by my last rich boon,
- With holy love, as thy pure bell
- Is filled with sweet perfume.
- A love that freely upon all
- Should pour its gladdening ray,
- And leave a memory fond and dear
- When life had passed away.
- Said I "my LAST rich boon"? O no!
- Another one I'd crave,
- With a violet's love, and a violet's life,
- I'd ask a violet's grave.
- In thy mossy bank, where rest the last
- Fond rays of the setting sun,
- To sleep my last and dreamless sleep,
- When life's long day is done.
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