THE ADDER'S TONGUE VIOLET. 



JEALOUSY. 



SONNET. 



H\ ERNEST HELFENSTEIN 



Alas ! for he who loves, too oft may be 



Like one who hath a precious treasure sealed 

 Whereto another hath obtained the key : 



And he, poor soul, who there his all concealed, 

 Lives blindly on, nor knows that, mite by mite, 



It dwindleth from his grasp ; or, if a thought 

 That something hath been lost, his mind affright, 



He puts it by, as evil fancy-wrought, 

 Yet will there sometimes come a ghostly dread, 



From which the soul recoils, and he will sleep- 

 Aye, sleep, and when he wakes, all, all is fled. 



Thus we may garner up our hearts, and keep 

 A more than human trust, and yet be left 

 Despoiled of all. Of hope — of faith — of love bereft. 



