A Violet Speaks

O PASSER-BY, draw near!
Upon a grave I grow;
That she who died was dear
They planted me to show.

Pluck me as you go by —
I am her messenger;
With her sweet breath I sigh;
In me her pulses stir.

Through these my quivering leaves
She fain would speak to you —
She whom the grave bereaves
Of the dear life she knew.

" How glad I was up there! "
She whispers underground.
" Have they who found me fair
Some other fair one found?

" Has he who loved me best
Learned Love's deep lore again,
Since I was laid to rest
Far from the world of men?

" Nay! Surely he will come
To dwell here at the last;
In Death's strange silent home
My hand shall hold him fast.

" Yet would that he might know
How hard it is to bide
In darkness here below
And miss him from my side!

" Fain would I send my soul
To lie upon his breast,
And breathe to him Love's whole
That life left unconfest. "

Ah, pluck me, passer-by!
For I would bear her breath —
Undying Love's own sigh —
To him who flees from Death.
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