To A Pansy-Violet

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Found Solitary Among the Hills.


  I.

  O pansy-violet,
  With early April wet,
  How frail and pure you look
  Lost in this glow-worm nook
  Of heaven-holding hills:
  Down which the hurrying rills
  Fling scrolls of melodies:
  O'er which the birds and bees
  Weave gossamers of song,
  Invisible, but strong:
  Sweet music webs they spin
  To snare the spirit in.


  II.

  O pansy-violet,
  Unto your face I set
  My lips, and--do you speak?
  Or is it but some freak
  Of fancy, love imparts
  Through you unto the heart's
  Desire? whispering low
  A secret none may know,
  But such as sit and dream
  By forest-side and stream.


  III.

  O pansy-violet,
  O darling floweret,
  Hued like the timid gem
  That stars the diadem
  Of Fay or Sylvan Sprite,
  Who, in the woods, all night
  Is busy with the blooms,
  Young leaves and wild perfumes,
  Through you I seem t' have seen
  All that such dreams may mean.


  IV.

  O pansy-violet,
  Long, long ago we met--
  'T was in a Fairy-tale:
  Two children in a vale
  Sat underneath glad stars,
  Far from the world of wars;
  Each loved the other well:
  Her eyes were like the spell
  Of dusk and dawning skies--
  The purple dark that dyes
  The midnight: his were blue
  As heaven the day shines through.


  V.

  O pansy-violet,
  What is this vague regret,
  This yearning, so like tears,
  That touches through the years
  Long past, when Myth and Fable
  In all strange things were able
  To beautify the Earth,
  Things of immortal worth?--
  This longing, that to me
  Is like a memory
  Lived long ago, of those
  Fair children who, it knows,
  Loved with no mortal love;
  Whom smiling heaven above
  Fostered, and when they died
  Laid side by loving side.


  VI.

  O pansy-violet,
  I dream, remembering yet
  A wood-god-guarded tomb,
  Out of whose moss a bloom
  Sprang, with three petals wan
  As are the eyes of dawn;
  And two as darkly deep
  As are the eyes of sleep.--
  O flower,--that seems to hold
  Some memory of old,
  A hope, a happiness,
  At which I can but guess,--
  You are a sign to me
  Of immortality:
  Through you my spirit sees
  The deathless purposes
  Of death, that still evolves
  The beauty it resolves;
  The change that aye fulfills
  Life's meaning as God wills.

© Madison Julius Cawein