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From the New Yorker, 20th October, 1838, page 69
Flowers......BY L . E. L.
THE PANSY.*
'A little purple flower,
And maidens call it Love in Idleness.'Shakspeare.
His name is on the haunted flower,
Linked with those dreams that came
In Inspiration’s lovely hour,
Whose memory is Fame.
He saw that flower when he was young,
Alike in life and heart,
And round it those sweet fancies flung
That never more depart.
A thousand blossoms bloom and die
Upon their mother Earth,
Unnoticed in their transient sigh,
Forgotten in their birth;
But when the Poet’s heart has cast
Its own deep beauty there,
The shadow of the charmed Past
Makes every leaf more fair.
