Sonnet

I had not thought of violets late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet 
In wistful April days, when lovers mate 
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. 
The thought of violets meant florists' shops, 
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; 
And garish lights, and mincing little fops 
And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines. 
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, 
I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams; 
The perfect loveliness that God has made,— 
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. 
And now—unwittingly, you've made me dream 
Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.

--Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson (1875-1935), biracial American poet, teacher, suffragette, activist, and editor