Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers
Passed o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings,
Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers.
And still a new succession sings and flies;
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot
Towards the old and still enduring skies;
While the low violet thrives at their root.
—HENRY VAUGHAN.
Blue eyes
Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies.