Poem by Joseph Rodman Drake

To a Lady with a Withered Violet

Though fate upon this faded flower
   His withering hand has laid,
Its odour’d breath defies his power,
   Its sweets are undecayed.

And thus, although thy warbled strains
   No longer wildly thrill,
The memory of the song remains,
   Its soul is with me still.

1. To Eva
2. To Sarah
3. Song (Oh! go to sleep, my baby dear)
4. Lines Written on Leaving New Rochelle
5. Bronx

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