"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.