  COLD blows the wind against the hill, And cold upon the plain; I sit me by the bank, until The violets come again. Here sat we when the grass was set With violets shining through, And leafing branches spread a net To hold a sky of blue. The trumpet clamoured from the plain, The cannon rent the sky; I cried, O Love, come back again, Before the violets die! But they are dead upon the hill, And he upon the plain; I sit me by the bank, until My violets come again. |
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