To The Violet

By John Banister Tabb

Sweet violet, who knows
From whence thy fragrance flows
Or whither hence it goes?

A pious pilgrim here
To Winter's sepulchre
Thou comest year by year

Alert with balmier store
Than Magdalen of yore
To Love's anointing bore.

Methinks that thou hast been
So oft the go-between
'Twixt sight and things unseen

That with thy wafted breath
Alternate echoeth
Each bank of sundering Death.