Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/150

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My fate is as yon faded wreath Of summer flowers; They've spent their store of fragrant health On sunny hours, Which reck'd them not, which heeded not When they were dead; Other flowers, unwarn'd by them Will spring instead. And my own heart is as the lute I am now waking; Wound to too fine and high a pitch They both are breaking. And of their song what memory Will stay behind? An echo, like a passing thought, Upon the wind.