CHAPTER TWO
Under a mantle of frost-work and snow,
Close by the arc of the fairy-queen’s ring,
Sleeping in delicate grottoes of ice,
Clusters of violets dream of the spring.
—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.
That strain again! It had a dying fall:
Oh! it came o’er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets