The speaker here is the buried child, and what a strange, unforgettable effect that has. From the grave, the child reminds us—or, more precisely, the local maidens—of a promise made. Each spring, when primroses bloom, they vowed to visit the tomb morning and evening, dressing it with fresh blossoms. Then the tone shifts, not harshly but with a child’s earnest insistence: you made a debt, now pay it. Scatter your violets here.
The mood is a curious blend of innocence and gentle command. There is no anger, only a wistful, almost playful nudge from beyond. You sense the child’s longing for those bright visits, for not being forgotten. And behind it, a faint eeriness—the voice of someone who knows that promises to the dead are easily broken. It leaves you feeling tender, a little unsettled, and suddenly aware of how fragile those pledges of remembrance really are.