WHITE VIOLETS. 



Pressing closer on the myriads in their train ; 

 White as milk, and perfume-laden, 

 Purple-veined and golden-eyed, 

 Still with sweeter solace waiting 



Where the swollen streams divide ; 

 We, released from strifes and cares, 

 Press our burning lips to theirs, 

 Share their mood of still delight, 

 Drink their unimpassioned light; 

 Gone from us the fever-heats, 

 Ours the breath of violets, 



These we follow in the footsteps of the rain ! 



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