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 I know they are dear as can be, And I hate the town with its roar."

"Violets! Violets! Violets!" Children of sun and of dew, Flakes of the blue of the sky, There is somebody calling to you Who seems to be longing to die; Yet violets are so sweet They can scarcely have dealings with death. Can it be, that the dying breath, That comes from the one last beat Of a true heart, turns to the flowers?

"Violets! Violets! Violets!" The crier is near me at last. With my eyes I am holding her fast. She is a lovely seller of flowers. She is one whom the town devours In its jaws of bustle and strife. How poverty grinds down a life; For, lost in the slime of a city, What is a beautiful face? Few are they who have pity For loveliness in disgrace. Yet she that I hold with my eyes, Who seems so modest and wise, Has not yet fallen, I am sure. She has nobly learned to endure. Large, and mournful, and meek,