Poems (Hardy)/The sonnet is the violet
THE SONNET IS THE VIOLET
THE sonnet is the violet of song,
A flower that springs responsive to the rain
Of tears, or to the heart when under strain
Of joy so deep that silence would do wrong
To life and love; then lyric phrases throng
The thought,—intoning, rise and fall,—again,
Again,—like evening bells in low refrain,
As if the words the passion would prolong.
O thou that seekest to make this little lower
Bloom in thy garden-plot of poesy,
Behold how dear it was to laureate kings,
And plant thou, too, in sacred earth and hour;
And men shall love thee in the years to be
As one who loved and cherished loveliest things.
A flower that springs responsive to the rain
Of tears, or to the heart when under strain
Of joy so deep that silence would do wrong
To life and love; then lyric phrases throng
The thought,—intoning, rise and fall,—again,
Again,—like evening bells in low refrain,
As if the words the passion would prolong.
O thou that seekest to make this little lower
Bloom in thy garden-plot of poesy,
Behold how dear it was to laureate kings,
And plant thou, too, in sacred earth and hour;
And men shall love thee in the years to be
As one who loved and cherished loveliest things.