Edith (Nesbit) Bland (1858–1924)

To M. O.

DEATH-WHITE azaleas watched beside my bed,

And tried to tell me tales of Southern lands;

But they in hothouse air were born and bred,

And they were gathered by a stranger’s hands:

They were not sweet, they never had been free,

And all their pallid beauty had no voice for me.

And all I longed for was one common flower

Fed by soft mists and rainy English air,

A flower that knew the woods, the leafless bower,

The wet, green moss, the hedges sharp and bare—

A flower that spoke my language, and could tell

Of all the woods and ways my heart remembers well.

Then came your violets—and at once I heard

The sparrows chatter on the dripping eaves,

The full stream’s babbling inarticulate word,

The plash of rain on big wet ivy-leaves;

I saw the woods where thick the dead leaves lie,

And smelt the fresh earth’s scent—the scent of memory.

The unleafed trees—the lichens green and gray,

The wide sad-coloured meadows, and the brown

Fields that sleep now, and dream of harvest day,

Hiding their seeds like hopes in hearts pent down—

A thousand dreams, a thousand memories

Your violets’ voices breathed in unheard melodies—

Unheard by all but me. I heard, I blessed

The little English, English-speaking things

For their sweet selves that laid my wish to rest,

For their sweet help that lent my dreaming wings;

And, most of all, for all the thoughts of you

Which make them smell more sweet than other violets do.