The Violet

How captivating is to me, Sweet flower! thine own young modesty! Though did I pluck thee from thy stem, There’s none would wear thy purple gem. I thought, perchance, that Ali Bey— But he is proud and lofty—nay! He would not prize thee—would not wear A flower so feeble though so fair: His turban for its decorations Had full blown roses and carnations.