by Jane Taylor
Down in a green and shady bed a modest violet grew, its stalk was bent, it hung its head, as if to hide from view.
And yet it was a lovely flower, its color bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, instead of hiding there.
Yet there it was content to bloom, in modest tints arrayed; And there suffused its sweet perfume within the silent shade.
Then let me to the valley go, this pretty flower to see; That I may also learn to grow in sweet humility.