4
VIOLET-PLANTING.
Come, children, come!
From the sweet ferny meads
Wherein he used to walk in days of yore,—
From the green path that leads,
When the long dusty road seems wearisome,
Up to his father's door,—
Gather the tender shoots
Of budding promise, fragrance, and delight,
Fresh-sprouting violet-roots,—
That, when the first June night
Shall draw about his bed its fragrant gloom,
This grove-mound may be bathed in balmy bloom,
With loving memories eloquently dumb;—
Come, children, come!
From the sweet ferny meads
Wherein he used to walk in days of yore,—
From the green path that leads,
When the long dusty road seems wearisome,
Up to his father's door,—
Gather the tender shoots
Of budding promise, fragrance, and delight,
Fresh-sprouting violet-roots,—
That, when the first June night
Shall draw about his bed its fragrant gloom,
This grove-mound may be bathed in balmy bloom,
With loving memories eloquently dumb;—
Come, children, come!
No more, alas, alas!
O fairest blossoms which the wild bee sips,
Along your pleasant places shall he pass,
Ere from your freshened leaves the night-dew drips,—
Culling your bloom in handfuls from the grass,
Pressing your tender faces to his lips,—
Ah, never any more!
Yet I recall, a little while before
O fairest blossoms which the wild bee sips,
Along your pleasant places shall he pass,
Ere from your freshened leaves the night-dew drips,—
Culling your bloom in handfuls from the grass,
Pressing your tender faces to his lips,—
Ah, never any more!
Yet I recall, a little while before
