WILD FLOWERS. 125 
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 hands 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! 
She sat her in her twilight bower, 
A temple formed of leaf and flower; 
Rose and myrtle framed the roof, 
To a shower of April proof; 
And primroses, pale gems of spring, 
Lay on the green turf glistening, 
Close by the violet, whose breath 
Is so sweet in a dewy wreath. 
