So I cast—in no derision—
From my 'bus-top garden-seat
These few violets, with precision,
At what I must call thy feet.
'Tis not that thy mien is stately,
'Tis not that thy grace is rare,
'Tis not that I care so greatly
For thy quaint heraldic air;
But contemptuous men neglect thee,
Load thee with invective strange,