WHITE VIOLETS. 



RAIN above the thirsting sod, 



Rain within the budding wood, 

 Dropping earthward, dropping ever soft and slow ; 



Rain its solemn chant repeating 

 On the hushed and darkened air, 



Rain with even pulses beating 

 Thro the fitful fever there ; 



We, who live and long for much, 



Still divine its magic touch, 



Drink its silver cadence still, 



Open to its inmost thrill, 



Gone from us the restless pain, 



Ours the blessing of the rain, 

 Ours the silent grace that hallows all below ! 



Flowers amid the dripping moss, 



Tearful flowers that sweeten loss, 



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