For close above a nodding violet grew;
A part of heaven it seemed, which one could scent,
Its blue commingling with the firmament.
WALDEN
June 3.
True, our converse a stranger is to speech;
Only the practiced ear can catch the surging words
That break and die upon thy pebbled lips.
Thy flow of thought is noiseless as the lapse of thy own waters,
Wafted as is the morning mist up from thy surface,