Mrs. Elizabeth Clementine Kinney (1810–1889)

ILL-FATED Violet! opening thy blue eye

In Winter’s face, who treacherous smiles, to see

So fair a child, of parent such as he!

And didst thou think in his chill lap to lie,

Wrapt in the fallen mantle of the tree,

Secure as if Spring’s bosom cherished thee?

Ah, little flower! thy doom must be to die

By thine own sire, like Saturn’s progeny.

In vain do human gentleness and love

And breathing beauty hope to meet the soul

Through which a holy influence never stole.

Though softening love the lion’s heart may move,

It cannot make cold SELF itself forget;

Nor canst thou Winter change, sweet Violet.