Page:Stories in Verse.djvu/17

 Her eyes seem to drink from my own. Her curls are carelessly thrown Back from white shoulder and cheek; And her lips seem strawberries, lost In some Arctic country of frost. The slightest curve on a face, May give an expression unmeet; Yet hers is so perfect and sweet, And shaped with such delicate grace, Its loveliness is complete.

"Violets! Violets! Violets!" I hear the cry once more; But not as I heard it before. It whispers no more of death; But only of odorous breath, And modest flowers, and life. I purchased a cluster, so rife With the touch of her tapering hand, I seem to hold it in mine. I would I could understand, Why a touch seems so divine.

To-day in passing down the street, I found a flower upon the walk, A dear syringa, white and sweet, Wrung idly from the missing stalk.