THE VIOLET. 



VIOLETS ! deep-blue violets ! 



April's loveliest coronets ! 



There are no flowers grow in the vale, 



Kissed 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 ! 

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