1886 – 1961
The white violet
is scented on its stalk,
the sea-violet
fragile as agate,
lies fronting all the wind
among the torn shells
on the sand-bank.
The greater blue violets
flutter on the hill,
but who would change for these
who would change for these
one root of the white sort?
Violet
your grasp is frail
on the edge of the sand-hill,
but you catch the light—
frost, a star edges with its fire.
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Thank you for your response–yes For some reason I think of the sea violet as she –she catches the light.
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Hello, and yes this does make sense. It seems white is the rarity. Some scholars believe that HD was trying say a woman who stands against the common forces is unusual and perhaps seems frail but is quite strong and resilient and most to be admired.
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Second try to comment – apologies if this is a duplicate!
As I listened to this the second time, the thought that entered my mind was preciousness, perhaps related to the rarity and perceived frailty of the white violet – face to the wind, standing tall, while the more common blue violets crowded together on the hill, somewhat away from the strong wind at the water’s edge…
No problem. I thought I had approved this via my Apple Watch, but I think I was out of range, and the approval did not take. All comments need approval, so spam isn’t posted, and so far it has worked perfectly except when I do not approve quickly enough. In this case it was a technology error. My apologies.
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Hello Ann– I believe your comment did go through. Thanks for listening and commenting. I do enjoy the simplicity of this poem and its imagery. “Lovely”
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