Poems (Truesdell)/Withered Violets

by Helen Truesdell

WITHERED VIOLETS.

"Violets! deep-blue violets!
April's loveliest coronets!
There are no flowers grow in the vale,
Kissed by the dew, waved by the gale—
None by the dew of the twilight wet,
So sweet as the deep-blue violet."—L. E . L.

Oh, give me back those faded flowers!
 For dearly do I prize
Those little violets, which look up
 "With blue and starry eyes.
Oh, give them back, nor deem me weak,
 That I should ask of thee
The flowers which I so long have kept—
 His last, last gift to me.

We stood beside a silvery stream,
 The waters running clear,
My heart all full of bitter grief,
 And in mine eye a tear.
'T was then he culled those lovely flowers,
 So fragile yet so sweet,
And bade me keep them for his sake
 Till we again should meet.

In mirrored beauty, still that stream
 Goes sweetly murmuring on,
Yet all those flowers have faded quite,
 Ah, perished one by one;
And still the giver lingers still
 Upon the stormy main,
While I sit by our silent hearth,
 And wish him back again.

He said that I must happy be,
 When he was far away;
But who can cheer my lonely heart,
 Or bid the tear-drops stay?
None, none!—until he comes again
 From off the stormy sea,
With treasured sadness, I will keep
 His last, last gift to me.