SONNET by Alice Nelson Dunbar.

I had no thoughts of violets of late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.

The thought of violets meant florist shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garnish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that god has made,-
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.

And now-unwittingly, you’ve made me dream
Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam….

Alice N. Dunbar

Category: Love, Sonnet,