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.