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Is scarcely visible. How like this is To the so false exterior of the world! Outside all looks so fresh and beautiful; But mildew, rot, and worm work on beneath, Until the heart is utterly decayed. There is one grave distinguished from the rest, But only by a natural monument:— A thousand deep-blue violets have grown Over the sod.—I do love violets: They tell the history of woman's love; They open with the earliest breath of spring; Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew, and light; And, if they perish, perish with a sigh Delicious as that life. On the hot June, They shed no perfume: the flowers may remain, But the rich breathing of their leaves is past:—