What have love and memory yet?
Only an April violet.
—ANONYMOUS.
Good-bye to the red rose that is your mouth,
The tender violets that are your sigh;
The sweetness that you are—that is my South—
Ah, not too soon, Enchantress, do I fly!—
Tell me good-bye!
—RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
Through the deep drifts the south wind breathed its way