Down through the trees is my green walk:
It is so narrow there and dark
That all the end, that's seen afar,
Is a dot of daylight, like a star.
When I had walked half-way or more,
I saw a pretty, small, blue flower;
And, looking closer, I espied
A small green stranger at her side.
If that flower's sweetheart lives to die
A natural death, thought I -
What will have happened by then
To a world of ever restless men?
'My little new-born oak,' I said,
' If my soul lives when I am dead,
I'll have an hour or more with you
Five hundred years from now!
When your straight back's so strong that though
Your leaves were lead on every bough,
It would not break - I'll think of you
When, weak and small, your sweetheart was
A little violet in the grass.'