I saw a garden-bed on which there grew,

Low down amid gay grass, a violet,

With flame of poppy flickering over it,

And many gaudy spikes and blossoms new,

Round which the wind with amorous whispers blew.

There came a maid, gold-haired and lithe and strong,

With limbs whereof the delicate perfumed flesh

Was like a babe's. She broke the flowering mesh

Of flaunting weeds, and plucked the modest bloom

To wear it on her bosom all day long.

So in pure breasts pure things find welcomest room,

And poppied epics, flushed with blood and wrong,

Are crushed to reach love's violets of song.