Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/23

14

Wander'd her look round, till its sight Became itself blent with the light; Till, as it sought for rest, her eye Now fell upon a green mound nigh. With ivy hung and moss o'ergrown, Beside it stood a broken stone, And on it was a single flower, The orphan growth of some chance shower, Which brought it there, and then forgot All care of the frail nursling's lot,— A lily with its silver bells Perfum'd like the spring's treasure cells; Yet drooping, pale, as if too late Mourning for their neglected state. It was the fittest flower to grow Over the conscious clay below.