Here can no flower be blooming, I know—
Yet the soul of the violet haunts me so!
Again and again that thrilling breath,
Fresh as the life that is snatched out of death,
Keen as the blow that Love might deal
Lest a spirit in trance should outward steal—
So thrilling that breath, so vital that blow—
The soul of the violet haunts me so!
Is it the blossom that slumbers as yet
Under the leaf-mould dank and wet,