Poems (Sharpless)/Violets at the Opera

by Frances M. Sharpless

VIOLETS AT THE OPERA

Sweet little flowers, how wan and faint you look
 Amid this atmosphere of heat and noise!
Your souls, like mine, it seems but poorly brook
 These artificial griefs, these hot-bed joys.

I wonder if you're dreaming, half shut up,
 Of far-off garden plots, and wooing breeze;
Of the sweet drop of honey in your cup,
 Hived from the nectarous dew, for happy bees!

Like that clear drop of concentrated sweet,
 Lies in my heart the thought of one beloved;
So let us wait until Time's flying feet
 Bring to us those who gather unreproved.

For you, I fear, no fragrant summer noon,
 No humming bees, no tender sunny sky;
Garnered in vain the honey-drop, for soon,
 Stifled in light and music, you must die.

For me—well, what for me? I wait, I dream
 Amid the fever of the world around;
Perchance, my happiness may on me beam,
 When I, like you, sink to our mother ground.