Classic Poem

In that parterre toward which our steps are tending,
The violets never die:
Let us with joy our pilgrim way be wending,
To greet their bloom on high.

Sweet friend! my heart's best thanks to thee are given
For every violet blue:
Sweet early blooms! how oft they speak of heaven,
And all things fair and true!

They tell of One whose promise is unfailing
Spring-time hath surely come;
So, Life's long winter o'er, we shall be hailing,
As promised, heaven's glad bloom.

Type of the spirit from the rough world shrinking,
Hiding in lowly bed,
The dews of heaven with a glad heart drinking,
Though bowed the reverent head.

How — more than a royal giver! — is it spending
Its fragrance on the air,
Asking no homage, but its good-will sending
Like sunshine everywhere.

Thank God for violets with their blue-eyed beauty,
Fair heralds of the spring!
Would that, like theirs, it might be our high duty
Glad tidings thus to bring!