Sir Walter Scott.
The Violet
The violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining;
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,
More sweet through watery lustre shining.
The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be passed its morrow;
No longer in my false love's eye
Remained the tear of parting sorrow.
The Violet
The violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining;
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,
More sweet through watery lustre shining.
The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be passed its morrow;
No longer in my false love's eye
Remained the tear of parting sorrow.
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