That purple flower, that violet

By nature limned upon thy slender throat,—

From north to south, from east to west ‘tis known!

A De Vardes bore that mark at Poitiers.

The marshal, Hugues the Fair, and black Arnaud,

The late baron—Why, what hast thou to do

With burning down châteaux to make a light

To show the Morbihan that purple flower?

Yvette

O Our Lady of Thorns!