Violets have many leaves, each one so earnestly
heart-shaped that you could not imagine the plants have
thought of anything else to do. But they have: they make
blossoms, which rise yellow or violet, in multitudes, the
violet ones with violet-colored spurs. They like
dampness, they like hillsides and are comfortable also
in the shady woods. They like to be alone, or congregated
together in the grass, looking up as you pass by, saying
Hello, Hello. And what else do you imagine
they might do? Sing? I don’t think so, I suspect
they know when any further ambition would be
unseemly. So all their time is used up in happiness—
in becoming the best they can be
for the greater glory of ______.
In fact, they know it’s okay to rest for the rest of
your life just saying: Thank you. Oh cast of thousands,
as are the stars of heaven, Thank you.