WHENEVER, betimes, the warm winds blow And drive underground the lingering snow; Whenever, amid such breathing space, The brown earth raises a wistful face -- Whenever about the fields I go, The soul of the violet haunts me so! I look -- there is never a leaf to be seen; In the pleached grass is no thread of green; But I walk as one who would chide his feet Lest they trample the hope of something sweet! Here can no flower be blooming, I know -- Yet the soul of the violet haunts me so! Again and again that thrilling breath, Fresh as the life that is snatched out of death, Keen as the blow that Love might deal Lest a spirit in trance should outward steal -- So thrilling that breath, so vital that blow -- The soul of the violet haunts me so! Is it the blossom that slumbers as yet Under the leaf-mould dank and wet, And visits in dreams the wondering air Whereof the passing sweetness I share? Or is it the flower shed long ago? The soul of the violet haunts me so! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DIVINE IMAGE, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE ON DONNE'S POETRY by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ALNWICK CASTLE by FITZ-GREENE HALLECK JAZZONIA by JAMES LANGSTON HUGHES THREE BLIND MICE by MOTHER GOOSE |