The poem
"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.