Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/155

146

A sunshine round her. Light laugh'd she, "All too sad are your songs for me; Let me try if the strings will breathe For minstrel of the aspen wreath." Lightly the answering prelude fell, Thus sang the Lady.

do purple bubbles swim, But upon the goblet's brim? Drink not deep, howe'er it glow Sparkles never lie below. Beautiful the light that flows From the rich leaves of the rose; Keep it,—then ask, where hath fled Summer's gift of morning red?