Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/234

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Awful the face, however fair, When death's dark call is written there. I gave the wreath, I named his name, One moment the heart's weakness came Written in crimson on her brow, The very blossoms caught the glow; Or grew they bright but from the fall Of tears that lit their coronal? The next, the dark eye's sudden rain, The cheek's red colour pass'd again, All earthly feelings with them died; Slowly she laid the gift aside. When will my soul forget the look With which one single stem she took From out the wreath?—a tulip flower; But, touch'd as by some withering power,