Classic Poem

Cold blows the wind against the hill,
And cold upon the plain,
I sit me by the bank, until
The violets come again.

Here sat we when the grass was set
With violets shining through,
And leafing branches spread a net
To hold a sky of blue.

The trumpet clamoured from the plain,
The cannon rent the sky;
I cried, O Love, come back again
Before the violets die!

But they are dead upon the hill,
And he upon the plain;
I sit me by the bank, until
My violets come again.