“What’s this whispering?” roared the breeze,
“Hush! a violet!” sobbed the trees,
“Thinks it’s spring—poor child, we fear
She will die if she should hear!”
Softly stole the wind away,
Tenderly he murmured, “Stay!”
To a late thrush on the wing,
“Stay with her one day and sing!”
Sang the thrush so sweet and clear
That the sun came out to hear,
And, in answer to her song,
Beamed on violet all day long.
And the last leaves here and there
Fluttered with a spring-like air,
Then the violet raised her head—
“Spring has come at last!” she said.
Happy dreams had violet
All that night—but happier yet,
When the dawn came dark with snow,
Violet never woke to know.
The Parrot and the Cuckoo.
A Tragedy.
