I have found violets. April hath come on, And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain Falls in the beaded drops of summer time. You may hear birds at morning, and at eve The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls, Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in His beautiful bright neck, and from the hills, A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea Tells the release of waters, and the earth Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves Are lifted by the grass--and so I know That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring. Smell of my violets! I found them where The liquid South stole o'er them, on a bank That lean'd to running water. There's to me A daintiness about these early flowers That touches me like poetry. They blow With such a simple loveliness among The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. I love to go in the capricious days Of April and hunt violets; when the rain Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod So gracefully to the kisses of the wind. It may be deem'd unmanly, but the wise Read nature like the manuscript of heaven And call the flowers its poetry. Go out! Ye spirits of habitual unrest, And read it when the "fever of the world" Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be Like a beguiling music to its flow, And you will no more wonder that I love To hunt for violets in the April time. TO A BRIDE. Pass thou on! for the vow is said That is never broken; The hand of blessing hath, trembling, laid On snowy forehead and simple braid, And the word is spoken By lips that never their words betray'd. Pass thou on! for thy human all Is richly given, And the voice that claim'd its holy thrall Must be sweeter for life than music's fall, And, this side Heaven, Thy lip may never that trust recal. Pass thou on! yet many an eye Will droop and glisten; And the hushing heart in vain will try To still its pulse as thy step goes by And we "vainly listen For thy voice of witching melody." Pass thou on! yet a sister's tone In its sweetness lingers, Like some twin echo sent back alone, Or the bird's soft note when its mate hath flown, And a sister's fingers Will again o'er the thrilling harp be thrown. And our eyes will rest on their foreheads fair, And our hearts awaken Whenever we come where their voices are-- But oh, we shall think how musical were, Ere of thee forsaken, The mingled voices we listed there.