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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