Violet, delicate, sweet,
Down in the deep of the wood,
Hid in thy still retreat,
Far from the sound of the street,
Man and his merciless mood:-
Safe from the storm and the heat,
Breathing of beauty and good
Fragrantly, under thy hood
Violet.
Beautiful maid, discreet,
Where is the mate that is meet,
Meet for thee-strive as he could-
Yet will I kneel at thy feet,
Fearing another one should,
Violet!
Cosmo Monkhouse.
O SCORN ME NOT.
O scorn me not, although my worth be slight,
Although the stars alone can match thy light,
Although the wind alone can mock thy grace,
And thy glass only show so fair a face—
Yet—let me find some favour in thy sight.
The proud stars will not bend from their chill height,
Nor will the wind thy faithfulness requite.
Thy mirror gives thee but a cold embrace.
O scorn me not.
My lamp is feeble, but by day or night
It shall not wane, and, but for thy delight,
My footsteps shall not for a little space
Forego the echo of thy tender pace,-
I would so serve and guard thee if I might.
O scorn me not.
Cosmo Monkhouse.