In a garden whose grounds are made glorious

by the choicest kind of every plant,

you see the violets growing there in splendor,

a green meadow sheltering their blue eyes.

The rose boughs grow about them, a sanctuary—

this one veiled over, that one walled around—

and the ban tree, the willow, and the myrtle have gathered,

a guard keeping watch over the violet beauty.

A violet whispered, saying to herself:

The rose spreads her shoulders wide and gazes forth.

See my lovely neighbor lifting her figure high—

how fine, what the tellers have described and painted!

What is the violet beside her graceful form,

slender, towering into the heights, dazzling all?

While I, the lowly one, have my place in the soil—

is there for me a passage to the sun's grandeur?

The bride of the garden heard the words of an ambitious one,

a foolish one, unknowing what appearances conceal.

She said to her: Sister, you are witless—

would you "grow thorns," you who are a perfume in bloom?

You were given the secret of that sweetness of beauty

in which I have seen how tenderness finds expression.

Be content in life, for in the honor of humility

there is an eminence not to be denied.

Mother, forgive me—I am possessed by my idea;

no fear turns me back, and I will not retreat.

O mother—a mother's heart is compassionate—

will you not hear me, I the weakest and the smallest?

You are heard, and loved, my little daughter; sleep now—

you shall see yourself a rose, strutting proudly.

My blue eyes slept a tranquil sleep,

and then the beautiful red rose stood complete.

Nature's secret is lodged within all souls:

a longing, a yearning, and a choosing.

The free one, if he aspires to life, finds it

his own dominion; the slave is never freed.

When the two sides of the orchard were shaken

by the might of the storms, the warner cried out within it.

Nature's whirlwind gathered force all at once,

like the sword of fate brandished on high.

She is the tender mother when she wills mercy,

and the raging one, unforgiving, when she hardens.

Alas for the boughs of the roses, snapped through,

and the supple limbs of the willow breaking!

Our lovely garden was left a barren waste;

nothing remained but the wind, whistling on.

But the violets are radiant and unharmed,

their leaves curled close upon their ground,

their blossoms like fair maidens amid green skiffs

that swim upon the waters and sway.

So thickly have the daughters of the plant gathered

that no wind can uproot them, nor are they broken;

they bent in softness to the waves of the air,

folded like folds of damask, and spread out again.

Their queen said to certain of her daughters:

None has perished but the towering and the proud.

Look upon this red rose: she was once

a violet, subject to my command.

She fastened on life's ambitions and its pomp,

and "turned rose" until she came to strut.

The red rose stretched forth her eyes: All eyes,

I see, are gazing upon my face.

I die happy, I die envied—

the death of the great brings glad tidings to the envious.

I have won immortality—and who, think you, will say no?

To those crying out over her she says: Enough, forbear!

I love ambition, and it has granted me

the glory of the roses—winning it is my pride.

I have passed beyond the accidents of life in one flash,

radiant, which is the very essence of my being.

Life, when it rises high at its close, is long;

and if it finds mere safety, it is short.

I have lived one day a rose, as though

I never lived but that day, and I ask no length of years.

She died glowing with a celestial smile,

images of happiness written upon her face—

it is the smile of happy hope fulfilled,

it is the smile of God, which never fades.