Christmas postcard, ca. 1900/s,
Murrell family, Coalfields Local
History Asson,, Wikimedia Commons.
Last night I found the violets You sent me once across the sea;
From gardens that the winter frets,
In summer lands they came to me.
Still fragrant of the English earth,
Still hurried from the frozen dew,
To me they spoke of Christmas mirth,
They spoke of England, spoke of you.
The flowers are scentless, black, and sere,
The perfume long has passed away;
The sea whose tides are year by year
Is set between us, chill and gray.
But you have reached a windless age,
The haven of a happy clime;
You do not dread the winter's rage,
Although we missed the summer-time.
And like the flower's breath over sea,
Across the gulf of time and pain,
To night returns the memory
Of love that lived not all in vain.
~~
Andrew Lang (1844-1912)
from Harper's New Monthly Magazine, December 1884
[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]
Andrew Lang biography
Love the antique/collectable violets post card. "... Winter frets..." to be constantly or visibly worried or anxious... Winter can cause this fretting. "sere: 1). being dried and withered. 2). (archaic) threadbare." Thoughts of "now is the Winter of our discontent". The Winter of our relationship. Lovely poem. Thank you George. 💟💟💟💟💟💟
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