Poetry Archives

“This bunch of violets,” he said,
         “Is for my daughter dear.
Since that glad morn when she was wed
         It is today a year.
She lives atop this flight of stairs—
         Please give an arm to me:
If we can take her unawares
               How glad she’ll be!”

We climbed the stairs; the flight was four,
         Our steps were stiff and slow;
But as he reached his daughter’s door
         His eyes were all aglow.
Joylike he raised his hand to knock,
         Then sore distressed was I,
For from the silence like a shock
               I heard a cry.

A drunken curse, a sob of woe . . .
         His withered face grew grey.
“I think,” said he, “we’d better go
         And come another day.”
And as he went a block with me,
         Walking with weary feet,
His violets, I sighed to see,
               Bestrewed the street.