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The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | ||
JUST BEFORE DAWN.
First Violet.Sister! No, answer, sister? Why so still?
One Tree to Another.
Poor little Violet, calling through the chill
Of this new frost which did her sister slay,
In which she must herself, too, pass away!
Nay, pretty Violet, be not so dismayed;
Sleep only, on your sister sweet, is laid.
277
No pleasant Wind about the garden goes,
Perchance the Wind has gone to bring the Rose.
O sister! surely now your sleep is done.
I would we had not looked upon the Sun.
My leaves are stiff with pain. O cruel night!
And through my root some sharp thing seems to bite.
Ah me! what pain, what coming change is this?
(She dies.)
First Tree.
So endeth many a Violet's dream of bliss.
The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | ||