A narrow glen with winding sides,
Bestrewn with rocks and gloomed with trees,
Grey, rolling clouds, chased by the breeze,
A stream, which through the valley glides.
Among the trees that climb the hill
The eager squirrels scold the crows,
And sharply sound the sudden blows
Of some woodpecker’s greedy bill.
The blood root, crouching in the grass,
From its protecting broad leaf peers;
The horse tails shake aloft their spears,
Like foemen, at us as we pass.
Here wandering with a friend I love,
Our speech with sparrow-chatter drowned,
He in the little valley found
An early violet, I a glove.
The flower grew beside a stone,
And shyly peered above the sod,
While, distant from it not a rod,
The dainty glove lay all alone.
Some child had drawn it from her hand
To dabble in the sunny spring,
And then, the thoughtless little thing,
Had left it lying on the rand.
And as I saw the symbols there
Of budding life and blossoming spring,
Arose and from my heart took wing
To heaven a brief and heartfelt prayer:
O little child, whoe’er thou art,
And in whatever station set,
Be modest, like the violet,
And act in life an earnest part,
That, as the streamlet by the sun
Is gently lifted to the skies,
Thy soul may unto heaven arise
Whene’er its earthly course is run.