TO VIOLET
(With a Bunch of Namesakes)
THERE is a maid—I am afraid
To give her name to you—
Who makes great pets of violets—
I wish I were one, too.
Once in her youth, this all is truth,
She took some up to smell;—
In some strange way the records say,
Into her eyes they fell——
And there they stayed—they never fade—
She looks at me—sometimes,—
And then—Oh, then I seize my pen
And fall to writing rhymes.
But, sad mischance! My consonants
Desert—four vowels, too;
A, E, O, I, take wings, that’s why
My rhymes are filled with U.
Robert Cameron Rogers.