𝓦𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶 𝓒𝓾𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓷 𝓑𝓻𝔂𝓪𝓷𝓽

Born in 1794

you had your first poem published

when you were thirteen

"Thanatopsis"

you published your first

book, "Poems" in 1821

and it included

the " The Yellow Violet"

an eloquent look at

a flower peeking from

under the leaves and snow

unseen by many passing by

but you saw it

an unassuming

modest flower

of cheerful yellow

on that dreary April day

long before the showy flowers

waiting for better weather

will rise high above

a rich metaphor

for the simple things

bringing us joy

without pomp or circumstance

if we just look in

overlooked places

underlooked places

the last two stanzas

added decades later

after your life of being

an editor, a lawyer, a co-founder

of the Republican Party

an abolitionist against slavery

a confession of sorts

to warn against chasing

the world's riches

without seeing those

who have fallen

by the wayside from the same

to have the vision to see

the perfection of Creation

God's intentional sowing of

the little things that

brighten our landscape

on a dreary April day.

❤️

"The Yellow Violet"

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

When beechen buds begin to swell,

And woods the blue-bird’s warble know,

The yellow violet’s modest bell

Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,

Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,

To meet thee, when thy faint perfume

Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring

First plant thee in the watery mould,

And I have seen thee blossoming

Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view

Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,

Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,

And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,

And earthward bent thy gentle eye,

Unapt the passing view to meet

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk;

But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,

I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget

The friends in darker fortunes tried.

I copied them—but I regret

That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour

Awakes the painted tribes of light,

I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower

That made the woods of April bright.

❤️