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WHITE VIOLETS.
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She lightly brushed their snow-flake wings With hand as white.
"Fair flowers; and is it sweet," she said, "To dwell in such a glade of dews?"Then lower drooped her faultless head, And seemed to muse.
"But human hearts," she murmured then, "With cause for constant sighs are weighed;Wherefore we yearn, though green the glen, For deeper shade.
"And, watching breezy water-jets In mossy woods, we straightway craveBy their attendant violets, A quiet grave."
"Kind Claire," I sighed, "the thought is thine; Still should I pray for lengthened life,If but that restless hand were mine— Its queen—my wife!
"Yet softer sleep could never be, When this my pilgrimage must end,Than under flowers beloved of thee, My sweetest friend."
