Poem by Charles Swain

* * *

A violet in her lovely hair,
A rose upon her bosom fair!
But O, her eyes
A lovelier violet disclose,
And her ripe lips the sweetest rose
That's 'neath the skies.

A lute beneath her graceful hand
Breathes music forth at her command;
But still her tongue
Far richer music calls to birth
Than all the minstrel power on earth
Can give to song.

And thus she moves in tender light,
The purest ray, where all is bright,
Serene, and sweet;
And sheds a graceful influence round,
That bellows e'ed the very ground
Beneath her feet! 

1. Love? I Will Tell Thee What It Is to Love!
2. Tripping down the Field-Path
3. 'Twas Just before the Hay Was Mown
4. The Rose Thou Gav'st
5. We Live in a Very Strange World

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