188
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
But when they met again he mark'd her hair
Where it had wreath'd,—the rosebud was not there.
They pass'd and repass'd: he, cold, silently,
As was his wont; but she, with flashing eye,
And blush lit up to crimson, seem'd to wear
More than accustom'd gladness in her air.
Ah! the heart overacts its part; its mirth,
Like light, will all too often take its birth
Mid darkness and decay; those smiles that press,
Like the gay crowd round, are not happiness:
For peace broods quiet on her dovelike wings,
And this false gaiety a radiance flings,
Dazzling but hiding not; and some who dwelt
Upon her meteor beauty, sadness felt;
Its very brilliance spoke the fever'd breast;
Thus glitter not the waters when at rest.
