Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/157

148

With fainter tones the harp then rung, As thus, with bow'd down head, she sung.

I have belied my woman's heart, In my false song's deceiving words; How could I say love would depart, As pass the lightsongs of spring birds? Vain, vain love would be Froth upon a summer sea.

No, love was made to soothe and share The ills that wait our mortal birth; No, love was made to teach us where One trace of Eden haunts our earth. Born amid the hours of spring, Soothing autumn's perishing.