Sonett-Forum

To a Violet Found in December

Ill-Fated Violet! opening thy blue eye
In Winter’s face, who treacherous smiles, to see
So fair a child, of parent such as he!
And didst thou think in his chill lap to lie,

Wrapt in the fallen mantle of the tree,
Secure as if Spring’s bosom cherished thee?
Ah, little flower! thy doom must be to die
By thine own sire, like Saturn’s progeny.

In vain do human gentleness and love
And breathing beauty hope to meet the soul
Through which a holy influence never stole.

Though softening love the lion’s heart may move,
It cannot make cold SELF itself forget;
Nor canst thou Winter change, sweet Violet.