Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/296



THE VIOLET.

!—deep-blue Violets! April's loveliest coronets! There are no flowers grow in the vale, Kiss'd by the dew, wooed by the gale,— None by the dew of the twilight wet, So sweet as the deep-blue Violet! I do remember how sweet a breath Came with the azure light of a wreath That hung round the wild harp's golden chords, Which rang to my dark-eyed lover's words.