I have seen that dear harp rolled
With gems of the east and bands of gold.
But it never was sweeter than when set
With leaves of the dark blue violet.
And when the grave shall open for me—
I care not how soon that time may be—
Never a rose shall blow on my tomb,
It breathes too much of hope and bloom!
But let me have there the meek regret
Of the bending and deep-blue violet!