Beautiful Violet, daughter of May Blooming so modestly out of the way Under the tangle and down by the brook Upon the hill-side in some shady nook Always and ever trying to play Hide-go-seek with the sun's golden ray.
Beautiful Violet, welcome thou art Bringing sweet music to a weary heart For the memories full, thy coming seems And gazing upon thee, back come the dreams That haunted me once in love's bright day When life and life's hopes were an endless May.
Beautiful Violets, when I am laid Under the Willow-beneath its cool shade Will you not come then, and bloom by me there Filling with sweetness the soft evening air? Say will you not come and over me lay Your mantle of blue, fair daughter of May.
It was very common in the Victorian era to speak of death in poems. Not for morbid sake, but because the life span was often short due to sickness and disease. The Victorians accepted this reality and spoke of it freely, which helped them deal with their grief.
Friendship
Friendship is not the flower that fades Beneath the sun's bright gleaming rays Tis not the wreath that beauty braids Like other earthly things decay
No, tis a bright and glowing gem To us by some kind of angel given Who took it from his diadem Just as he passed the gates of Heaven.