14
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Wander'd her look round, till its sight
Became itself blent with the light;
Till, as it sought for rest, her eye
Now fell upon a green mound nigh.
With ivy hung and moss o'ergrown,
Beside it stood a broken stone,
And on it was a single flower,
The orphan growth of some chance shower,
Which brought it there, and then forgot
All care of the frail nursling's lot,—
A lily with its silver bells
Perfum'd like the spring's treasure cells;
Yet drooping, pale, as if too late
Mourning for their neglected state.
It was the fittest flower to grow
Over the conscious clay below.
