The Violet
I CAN not tell, not I, why she
Awhile so gracious, now should be
So grave: I can not tell you why
The violet hangs its head awry.
It shall be cull'd, it shall be worn,
In spite of every sign of scorn,
Dark look, and overhanging thorn.
Awhile so gracious, now should be
So grave: I can not tell you why
The violet hangs its head awry.
It shall be cull'd, it shall be worn,
In spite of every sign of scorn,
Dark look, and overhanging thorn.
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I like the bitterness in this
I like the bitterness in this poem, well expressed in imagery and rhyme.
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hands /
hands /
full of thorns /
red as the rose /
they used to hold
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