VIOLET-PLANTING.
7
Blow, violets, blow!
And tell him in your blossoming o'er and o'er,
How in the places which he used to know
His name is still breathed fondly as of yore;
Tell him how often in the dear old ways,
Where bloomed our yesterdays,—
The radiant days which I shall find no more,—
My lingering footsteps shake
The dew-drops from your leaves, for his dear sake:
Wake, blue eyes, wake!
And tell him in your blossoming o'er and o'er,
How in the places which he used to know
His name is still breathed fondly as of yore;
Tell him how often in the dear old ways,
Where bloomed our yesterdays,—
The radiant days which I shall find no more,—
My lingering footsteps shake
The dew-drops from your leaves, for his dear sake:
Wake, blue eyes, wake!
The earliest breath of June
Blows the white tassels from the cherry boughs,
And in the deepest shadow of the noon
The mild-eyed oxen browse.
How tranquilly he sleeps,
He whom so bitterly we mourn as dead!
Although the new month sweeps
The over-blossomed spring-flower from his bed,
Giving fresh buds therefor,
Although beside him still Love waits and weeps,
And yonder goes the war.
Blows the white tassels from the cherry boughs,
And in the deepest shadow of the noon
The mild-eyed oxen browse.
How tranquilly he sleeps,
He whom so bitterly we mourn as dead!
Although the new month sweeps
The over-blossomed spring-flower from his bed,
Giving fresh buds therefor,
Although beside him still Love waits and weeps,
And yonder goes the war.
Wake, violets, wake!
Open your blue eyes wide!
Open your blue eyes wide!
