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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Than its sweet loves of nature, music, song,
Which as by right to woman's world belong,
And make it lovely for Love's dwelling-place.
Alas! that he should leave his fiery trace!
But this bright creature's brow seem'd all too fair,
Too gay, for Love to be a dweller there;
For Love brings sorrow: yet you might descry
A troubled flashing in that brilliant eye,
A troubled colour on that varying cheek,
A hurry in the tremulous lip to speak
Avoidance of sad topics, as to shun
Somewhat the spirit dared not rest upon;
An unquiet feverishness a change of place,
A pretty pettishness, if on her face
A look dwelt as in scrutiny to seek
What hidden meanings from its change might break.
