The white violet is scented on its stalk, the sea-violet fragile as agate, lies fronting all the wind among the torn shells on the sand-bank. The greater blue violets flutter on the hill, but who would change for these who would change for these one root of the white sort? Violet your grasp is frail on the edge of the sand-hill, but you catch the light -- frost, a star edges with its fire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NICHARCHUS UPON PHIDON HIS DOCTOR by EZRA POUND THE GREAT HUNT by CARL SANDBURG MY ORCHA'D IN LINDEN LEA by WILLIAM BARNES ODE, FR. THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM by RICHARD BARNFIELD DANTE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT AGAINST HOPE by ABRAHAM COWLEY |