“ Within my heart one slow sweet whisper stole 
Consuming and destroying all my soul 
Lest, if the pure cold mind should conquer it, 
I might not know, although it still were sweet. 
 
“ My pure desires arose and cast out love 
That flew away, most like a wounded dove, 
Only the drops were mine its bosom bled, 
Now the last time it hovers by my head : 
 
“ Now the last time I turn and go to her.” 
The violet smiled at him :  his fingers fair 
Plucked the sweet blossom to his breast ;  his eyes 
Mused like delight, and like desire were wise. 
 
There was a maiden like the sun, to whom 
His footsteps turned amid the myriad bloom 
Of flowers and leafy pathways of the wood, 
Where, in a dell of roses white, she stood. 
 
He came to her and looked so dear and deep 
Into her eyes, the wells and woods of sleep, 
And took the violet from his breast, and stood 
A glad young god within the golden wood. 
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