She who sung so gently to the lute
Her dream of home, steals timidly away,
Shrinking as violets do in summer’s ray.
—THOMAS MOORE.
Lead me where amid the tranquil vale
The broken streamlet flows in silver light;
And I will linger when the gale
O’er the bank of violets sighs,
Listening to hear its softened sounds arise.
—ROBERT SOUTHEY.