—CHARLES DENYS CONWAY.
She gave me a flower that she wore in her bosom,
And violets, not half so blue as her eyes.
—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Poor little Violet, calling through the chill
Of this new frost which did her sister slay,
In which she must herself, too, pass away!
Nay, pretty Violet, be not so dismayed;
Sleep only on your sisters sweet is laid.
—PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.