The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems/The Violet
THE VIOLET.
Violets!—deep-blue Violets!
April's loveliest coronets!
There are no flowers grow in the vale,
Kiss'd by the dew, wooed by the gale,—
None by the dew of the twilight wet,
So sweet as the deep-blue Violet!
I do remember how sweet a breath
Came with the azure light of a wreath
That hung round the wild harp's golden chords,
Which rang to my dark-eyed lover's words.
I have seen that dear harp rolled
With gems of the East and bands of gold;
But it never was sweeter than when set
With leaves of the deep-blue Violet!
And when the grave shall open for me,—
I care not how soon that time may be,—
Never a rose shall grow on that tomb,
It breathes too much of hope and of bloom;—
But there be that flower's meek regret,
The bending and deep-blue Violet!