VIOLETS.
139
VIOLETS.
SENT IN A LITTLE BOX.
ET them lie, yes, let them lie, They 'll be dead to-morrow:
Lift the lid nu quietly
As you 'd lift the mystery
Of a shrouded sorrow.
Let them lie, the fragrant things,
Their sweet souls thus giving:
Let no breezes' ambient wings,
And no useless water-springs
Lure them into living.
Their sweet souls thus giving:
Let no breezes' ambient wings,
And no useless water-springs
Lure them into living.
They have lived—they live no more:
Nothing can requite them
For the gentle life they bore
And up-yielded in full store
While it did delight them.
Nothing can requite them
For the gentle life they bore
And up-yielded in full store
While it did delight them.
Yet, poor flowers, not sad to die
In the hand that slew ye,
Did ye leave the open sky,
And the winds that wandered by,
And the bees that knew ye.
In the hand that slew ye,
Did ye leave the open sky,
And the winds that wandered by,
And the bees that knew ye.
