CCLXVIII — The Violet
Oh faint, delicious, spring-time violet,
Thine odour, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.
The breath of distant fields upon my brow 5
Blows through that open door,
The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low
And sadder than of yore.
It comes afar, from that belovèd place,
And that belovèd hour, 10
When life hung ripening in love’s golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.
A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,
A lark sings o’er my head,
Drowned in the sky—O pass, ye visions, pass, 15
I would that I were dead!—
Why hast thou opened that forbidden door
From which I ever flee?
O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be! 20
O violet! thy odour through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf.
William W. Story.