THE VIOLETThere on another cloudless Sunday morning,
Was strolling on a green hill side.
There beneath rocks I smelt a modest-
Violet, caught red-handed spreading its smell.
It was small then,
As if just bloomed-
But I felt shy then, to pluck it from the rocks,
For I was sent to fetch haystacks from the barn.
So on I went for my work-
Toiled I in the barn, cutting hay and boxing it in containers,
Sweat broke like a dam burst,
But I was still happy.
For at the end of the day, I was to take the violet-
And show it to my mother,
She might have resented, for 'twas not the rose she planned.
But I was sure she would accept it.
As I set off from my work,
I approached the rocks by which I saw the beauty,
Alas! it was plucked,
Not for me anymore!