Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/73

 Then you said: "Let us go

Where the late violets blow

In hollows of the hills, under dead oak leaves hiding;—

We'll find she's there abiding."

Do we recall that day?

Has its grace passed away—

Its tenderest, dream-like tone,

Like one of Turner's landscapes limned on air—

Has its fine perfume flown

And left the memory bare?

Not so; its charm is still

Over wood, vale and hill—

The ferny odor sweet, the humming insect chorus,

The spirit that before us

Enticed us with delights

To the blue, breezy heights.

O, beautiful hills that stand

Serene 'twixt earth and heaven, with the grace

Of both to make you grand,—

Your loveliness leaves place

For nothing fairer, fair,

And complete beyond compare,

O, lovely purple hills! O, first day of November,

Be sure that I remember.

Salem. Or., 1869.

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