On a Violet in her Breast

See how this violet, which before
Hung sullenly her drooping head,
As angry at the ground that bore
The purple treasure which she spread,
Doth smilingly erected grow,
Transplanted to those hills of snow.

And whilst the pillows of thy breast
Do her reclining head sustain,
She swells with pride to be so blest,
And doth all other flowers disdain;
Yet weeps that dew which kissed her last,
To see her odours so surpass'd.

Poor flower! how far deceiv'd thou wert,
To think the riches of the morn,
Or all the sweets she can impart,
Could these or sweeten or adorn,
Since thou from them dost borrow scent,
And they to thee lend ornament!