Few are they who have pity

For loveliness in disgrace.

Yet she that I hold with my eyes,

Who seems so modest and wise,

Has not yet fallen, I am sure.

She has nobly learned to endure.

Large, and mournful, and meek,

[Pg 3]

Her eyes seem to drink from my own.

Her curls are carelessly thrown

Back from white shoulder and cheek;

And her lips seem strawberries, lost

In some Arctic country of frost.

The slightest curve on a face,

May give an expression unmeet;

Yet hers is so perfect and sweet,

And shaped with such delicate grace,

Its loveliness is complete.

"Violets! Violets! Violets!"

I hear the cry once more;

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