A WITHERED VIOLET.
I PLUCKED a purple violet,
Its petals were all dewy wet,
I held it tightly for an hour,
And then I dropped the faded flower;
Dropped it and lost unconsciously,
Scarce thinking of the how or why.
’Twas hours since, but my fingers yet
Are scented with the violet;
The fragrant spell, invisible,
Has caught and holds me in it’s sway.
I would not flee if flight might be;
The violet still rules my day.
I plucked a flower when life was young,
I chose it all the flowers among.
It was so fresh, it was so fair,
Heaven’s very dew seemed cradled there;
A little while it smiled in morn,
And then it withered and was gone.
’Tis long years since, but every hour
I taste the perfume of that flower.
Still it endures, and all day pours
A balm of fragrance on the way.
I catch its breath high over death;
A memory still rules my day.