SONG

  Violet! sweet violet! 
  Thine eyes are full of tears;
        Are they wet
        Even yet
With the thought of other years? 
Or with gladness are they full,
For the night so beautiful,
And longing for those far-off spheres?

  Loved one of my youth thou wast,
  Of my merry youth,
        And I see,
        Tearfully,
All the fair and sunny past,
All its openness and truth,
Ever fresh and green in thee
As the moss is in the sea.

  Thy little heart, that hath with love
  Grown colored like the sky above,
  On which thou lookest ever,—­
        Can it know
        All the woe
Of hope for what returneth never,
All the sorrow and the longing
To these hearts of ours belonging?

  Out on it! no foolish pining
        For the sky
        Dims thine eye,
Or for the stars so calmly shining;
Like thee let this soul of mine
Take hue from that wherefor I long,
Self-stayed and high, serene and strong,
Not satisfied with hoping—­but divine.

  Violet! dear violet! 
  Thy blue eyes are only wet
With joy and love of Him who sent thee,
And for the fulfilling sense
Of that glad obedience
Which made thee all that Nature meant thee!

ROSALINE

Thou look’dst on me all yesternight,
Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright
As when we murmured our troth-plight
Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline! 
Thy hair was braided on thy head,
As on the day we two were wed,
Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead,
But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline!

The death-watch ticked behind the wall,
The blackness rustled like a pall, 10
The moaning wind did rise and fall
Among the bleak pines, Rosaline! 
My heart beat thickly in mine ears: 
The lids may shut out fleshly fears,
But still the spirit sees and hears. 
Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!

A wildness rushing suddenly,
A knowing some ill shape is nigh,
A wish for death, a fear to die,
Is not this vengeance, Rosaline? 20
A loneliness that is not lone,
A love quite withered up and gone,
A strong soul ousted from its throne,
What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?

’Tis drear such moonless nights as these,
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,
And the leaves shiver in the trees,
And then thou comest, Rosaline! 
I seem to hear the mourners go,
With long black garments trailing slow, 30
And plumes anodding to and fro,
As once I heard them, Rosaline!

Thy shroud is all of snowy white,
And, in the middle of the night,
Thou standest moveless and upright,
Gazing upon me, Rosaline! 
There is no sorrow in thine eyes,
But evermore that meek surprise,—­
O God! thy gentle spirit tries
To deem me guiltless, Rosaline! 40