by June Taylor
Down in the green and shady bed,
a modest violet grew,
its stalk was bent, it hang its head,
as if to hide from view.
And yet it was a lovely flower,
no colours bright and fair;
it might have graced a rosy bower,
instead of hiding there.
Yet there it was content to bloom,
in modest tints arrayed;
and there diffused its sweet perfume,
within the silent shade.
Then let me to the valley go,
this pretty flower to see,
that I may also learn to grow
in sweet humility.