"The Violet," by Jane Taylor (1783-1824), is another of those dear old-fashioned poems, pure poetry and pure violet. It is included in this volume out of respect to my own love for it when I was a child.

Down in a green and shady bed
⁠A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
⁠As if to hide from view.

​And yet it was a lovely flower,
⁠No colours bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
⁠Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom;
⁠In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused its sweet perfume,
⁠Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go,
⁠This pretty flower to see;
That I may also learn to grow
⁠In sweet humility.