Violets, violets, sweet March violets,
Sure as March comes, they'll come too,
First the white and then the blue—
White, with just a pinky dye,
Blue as little baby's eye,—
So like violets.
Though the rough wind shakes the house,
Knocks about the budding boughs,
There are violets.
Though the passing snow-storms come,
And the frozen birds sit dumb,
Up spring violets.
One by one among the grass,
Saying "Pluck me!" as we pass,
By and by there'll be so many,
We'll pluck dozens nor miss any:
Sweet, sweet violets!
Children, when you go to play,
Look beneath the hedge to-day:
Mamma likes violets.