O violets which grow
Around gray ruins of ancient fortresses,
Or in the shade of gloomy cypresses,
Or nestle low
Beside the roots of mighty walnut trees
Which have endured the storms of centuries,
Across the sea
Your shy, sweet kindred fill the shady woods
And sunny hollows o'er which nature broods;
Where wander free
Only her creatures - wind and bee and bird;
Only their inarticulate voice is heard.
But you
Sprung up from soil so often trampled o'er
By mailed warriors that their crimson gore
Had changed your hue
To deepest purple, so in you we see
How hardly won a thing is royalty.