26
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Alas! that so often the grave should be
The seal of woman's fidelity!
On the horizon is a star,
Its earliest, loveliest one by far;
A blush is yet upon the sky,
As if too beautiful to die,—
A last gleam of the setting sun,
Like hope when love has just begun;
The hour when the maiden's lute,
And minstrel's song, and lover's suit,
Seem as that their sweet spells had made
This mystery of light and shade.
That last rich sigh is on the gale
Which tells when summer's day is over,
