23 
I know thou art oft 
Passed carelessly by, 
And the hue so soft 
Of thine azure eye 
Gleams unseen, unsought, in its leafy bower. 
While the heartless prefer some statelier flower 
That they eagerly cull, and, when faded, fling 
Away with rude hand, as a worthless thing. 
Not such is thy fate: not thy beauty’s gift 
Alone bids thee from thy bower he reft; 
Not thy half-closing, dewy, and deep blue eye; 
But the charm that doth not with beauty die. 
’Tis thy mild, soft fragi’ance makes thee so dear. 
Thou loveliest gem of the floral year! 
And with joy, sweet flower, 
I welcome thee here. 
While dark clouds lour. 
And winds sound drear. 
The Christmas wreath hath entwined my brow. 
But the Violet smiles in that chaplet now. 
Sweet wanderer! — gladly I gi-eet thy form 
’Mid the loud shrill blast and the wintry stonn. 
Thou callest up visions of happier times — 
Thou tellest of sunnier southern climes — 
Thou paintest bright pictures to memory’s eye. 
Of bliss-fraught houi’s for ever gone by — 
