Page:Poems Brown.djvu/17

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poems.
11
As homeward, then, my steps I bent,
The tears would slowly fall;
But in my heart the words still rang,
"He hears the weakest call."

Next morn I sought the lonely dell,
To cull the floweret fair;
I looked around, but all in vain;
The Violet was not there.

At last I found the blossom pure,
With drooping, withered head;
I spoke, but no sweet answer came:
The Violetit was dead!

The winds of heaven had roughly blown.
That flower so frail and small,
But those sweet words came back to me,
"God watcheth over all."