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.
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. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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