Whenever , betimes, the warm winds blow
And drive underground the lingering snow;
Whenever, amid such breathing space,
The brown earth raises a wistful face—
Whenever about the fields I go,
The soul of the violet haunts me so!

I look—there is never a leaf to be seen;
In the pleachèd grass is no thread of green;
But I walk as one who would chide his feet
Lest they trample the hope of something sweet!
Here can no flower be blooming, I know—
Yet the soul of the violet haunts me so!

Again and again that thrilling breath,
Fresh as the life that is snatched out of death,
Keen as the blow that Love might deal
Lest a spirit in trance should outward steal—
So thrilling that breath, so vital that blow—
The soul of the violet haunts me so!

Is it the blossom that slumbers as yet
Under the leaf mould dank and wet,
And visits in dreams the wondering air
Whereof the passing sweetness I share?
Or is it the flower shed long ago?
The soul of the violet haunts me so!