Ye grow so small, so meek, so wild,
In this neglected spot,
Most like unto a simple child,
That hath a lowly lot.
The winds of spring are loud and chill,
The summer sun is hot,
Ye grow as fair and fragrant still,
As if ye felt them not.
And storms will vex the quiet home,
Of tempers loud and rude :
There pain or grief perchance may come,
Or chilling want intrude:
But patience has a charm to meet,
And soothe the darkest hour.
-Violets, Cecil Frances Alexander