A nosegay of violets, Sit under the dew For a while with me, While I chant your praises. The nightingale shall sing, The poppies shall stir, When I pluck a flower, Pine-needles shall spring to life. Under the surge of starlight, And a moon-reed shall carry A tune of its own. Take these words, sweet violets, God bless your dews.
- Robert Graves