WHITE VIOLET. Timidity. 
Shall I tell what the Violet said to the Star, 
While she gazed through her tears on his beauty afar? 
She sang, but her singing was only a sigh, 
And nobody heard it, but Heaven, Love, and I!— 
A sigh full of fragrance and feeling, it stole 
Through the stillness, up, up, to the star’s beaming soul. 
She sang—“Thou art glowing with glory and might, 
And I’m but a flower, frail, lowly and light; 
I ask not thy pity, I seek not thy smile; 
I ask but to worship thy beauty awhile;— 
To sigh to thee—sing to thee—bloom for thine eye, 
And when thou art weary to bless thee and die!” 
Shall I tell what the Star to the Violet said, 
While ashamed ’neath his love-look, she hung her young head? 
He sang—but his singing was only a ray, 
And none but the flower and I heard the dear lay; 
How it thrilled, as it fell, in its melody clear, 
Through the little heart, heaving with rapture and fear! 
Ah! no, love! I dare not! too tender, too pure, 
For me to betray were the words he said to her; 
But as she lay listening that low lullaby, 
A smile lit the tear in the timid flower’s eye; 
And when death had stolen her beauty and bloom, 
The ray came again to play over her tomb! 
