Classic Poem

This is the Violet, love—a flower I prize,
For its pure life is thine. Its pleasure is
To live secluded in calm nook like this,
Beneath a leafy shelter, and the sky's
Blue, summer look of clearness; drinking in
The breath and dews of freshness, night and morn;
Hearkening the Lark's high hymn; and the confusing din
Which the Bee makes with his small-compassed horn,
Himself most pleased by its dull, drowsy hum:
Yet the meek Violet not despiseth it,
Well-knowing he doth serenading come
For what of sweets as alms she may think fit
To part withal—a minstrel beggar he,
Who, when his wants are fed, wends homeward merrily.