THE scent of violets,
Subtle, fragrant and faint,
Breathing a reticence,
An unaustere restraint,
Finds a nook in my heart
And wakes an old-time woe—
Long, how long, do you ask?
Oh, centuries ago.

The keening of violins,
Tenuous, passionel,
Wailing of stark despairs,
A madness of farewell,
Shadows all my soul
With night of forgotten things,
Blood and a passion of tears,
The yoke of accursed kings.

The ring of a splendid phrase
Flung out in the teeth of might,
The call of a great lost cause
Sounds in my ears to-night,
Falls on my ears to-night,
And the anguish disappears,
Swept by exultant defeat
Into the night of the years.