My pretty flower,
How cam'st thou here?
Around thee all
Is sad and sere,--
The brown leaves tell
Of winter's breath,
And all but thou
Of doom and death.

The naked forest
Shivering sighs,--
On yonder hill
The snow-wreath lies,
And all is bleak--
Then say, sweet flower,
Whence cam'st thou here
In such an hour?

No tree unfolds its timid bud--
Chill pours the hill-side's lurid flood--
The tuneless forest all is dumb--
Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come?

Spring hath not scattered yet her flowers,
But lingers still in southern bowers;
No gardener's art hath cherished thee,
For wild and lone thou springest free.

Thou springest here to man unknown,
Waked into life by God alone!
Sweet flower--thou tellest well thy birth,--
Thou cam'st from Heaven, though soiled in earth!