And violets for her wreath,
And a whisper at last of sweet response
Stole on her perfumed breath.
—FRANCES L. MACE.
Come not, O sweet days,
Out of yon cloudless blue,
Ghosts of so many dear remembered Mays,
With faces like dead lovers, who died true.
Come not, lest we go seek with eyes all wet,
Primrose and violet,