Poetry Archives

The sun has kissed the violet sea,
 And burned the violet to a rose.
O Sea! wouldst thou not better be
 Mere violet still?  Who knows? who knows?
    Well hides the violet in the wood:
    The dead leaf wrinkles her a hood,
    And winter’s ill is violet’s good;
    But the bold glory of the rose,
    It quickly comes and quickly goes—
    Red petals whirling in white snows,
            Ah me!

The sun has burnt the rose-red sea:
 The rose is turned to ashes gray.
O Sea, O Sea, mightst thou but be
 The violet thou hast been to-day!
    The sun is brave, the sun is bright,
    The sun is lord of love and light;
    But after him it cometh night.
    Dim anguish of the lonesome dark!—
    Once a girl’s body, stiff and stark,
    Was laid in a tomb without a mark,
            Ah me!


Macon, Georgia, 1868.