The Violet

1

I will not throw away the flower,
The little violet blue;
I pluck'd it in a lonely hour,
When she I loved was true.

2

Beside a hedge upon a hill,
All by itself it grew,
A type of her who loves me still,
In scent and colour true.

3

I'll keep the blossom many hours,
Until it withered be;
A type of sweet and withered flowers,
But most of love, and thee.
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