THE FADED VIOLET.
WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves!
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Thou darling of the April rain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Though scent and azure tint are fled—
O dry, mute lips! ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead:
Of something wilted like thy leaves;
Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
Yet for the love of those white hands
That found thee by a river’s brim—
That found thee when thy dewy mouth
Was purpled as with stains of wine—
For love of her who love forgot,
I hold thy faded lips to mine.
That thou shouldst live when I am dead,
When hate is dead, for me, and wrong,
For this I use my subtlest art,
For this I fold thee in my song.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
SONG.
NAY! if thou must depart, thou shalt depart;
But why so soon, oh, heart-blood of my heart!
Go then! Yet, going, turn and stay thy feet,
That I may once more see that face so sweet.
Once more—if never more; for swift days go
As hastening waters from their fountains flow;
And whether yet again shall meeting be
Who knows? Who knows? Ah! turn once more to me!
Sir Edwin Arnold.