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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Its spell of beauty; the fixed lid,
As if the daylight were forbid
To brighten the blue orbs that kept
Their azure even while they slept
All other sleeps, save this dark one.
And this the work that he had done.
And she was gone, the faithful,—fair,
In her first moment of life's care;
Gone in her bloom, as if the earth
Felt pity for its loveliest birth,
And took her like the gentle flower,
That falls before the earliest shower;
With heart too tender, and too weak,—
What had such heart to do but break?
