“The loss of beauty is not always loss,”
Till like the voice of love they soothed my pain,
And gave me strength to bear again my cross.
—ALBERT LAIGHTON.
The violet’s gone,
The first-born child of the early sun;
With us she is but a winter’s flower,
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower,
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.