DIRGE FOR A VIOLET.
Here was a happy flower,
Born in sun and shower,
In the meadow;
Sorrow was her dower,
And shadow.
Bid the gentle mole
Dig his deepest hole,
For her rest;
Sleep has charmed her soul,
Sleep is best.
Bid the vervain spire
Light the funeral fire,
And the yarrow
Build a shady choir,
For the sparrow.
Bid him chirp and cry,
“Everything must die,
She is dead,”
Now in exequy,
All is said.