White Violets

Elaine Goodale Eastman (1863 - 1953)

from All Round the Year, Verses from Sky Farm


Rain above the thirsting sod,
Rain within the budding wood,
Dropping earthward, dropping ever soft and slow;
Rain its solemn chant repeating,
On the hushed and darkened air,
Rain with even pulses beating
Thro’ the fitful fever there;
We, who live and long for much,
Still divine its magic touch,
Drink its silver cadence still,
Open to its inmost thrill, -
Gone from us the restless pain,
Ours the blessing of the rain,
Ours the grace benign that hallows all below!

Flowers amid the dripping moss,
Tearful flowers that sweeten loss,
Pressing closer on the myriads in their train;
White as milk, and perfume-laden,
Purple-veined and golden-eyed,-
Still with sweeter solace waiting
Where the swollen streams divide;
We, released from strifes and cares,
Press our burning lips to theirs,
Share their mood of still delight,
Drink their unimpassioned light;
Gone from us the fever-heats,
Ours the breath of violets,-
These we follow in the footsteps of the rain!