And I hate the town with its roar."

"Violets! Violets! Violets!"

Children of sun and of dew,

Flakes of the blue of the sky,

There is somebody calling to you

Who seems to be longing to die;

Yet violets are so sweet

They can scarcely have dealings with death.

Can it be, that the dying breath,

That comes from the one last beat

Of a true heart, turns to the flowers?

"Violets! Violets! Violets!"

The crier is near me at last.

With my eyes I am holding her fast.

She is a lovely seller of flowers.

She is one whom the town devours

In its jaws of bustle and strife.

How poverty grinds down a life;

For, lost in the slime of a city,

What is a beautiful face?

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