UNDER the larch, with its tassels wet, While the early sunbeams lingered yet, In the rosy dawn my love I met. Under the larch, when the sun was set, He came with an April violet: Forty years—and I have it yet. Out of life, with its fond regret, What have love and memory yet? Only an April violet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IDLENESS by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL THE LOVER AND THE BIRDS by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM A SUMMER NIGHT by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE AWAKENING OF THE TREES by WILLIAM ROSE BENET SONGS OF MIRZA SCHAFFY, SELECTION by FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT |