Here in the inmost of the master's heart <br />This violet crisp with early dew <br />Has come to leave her beauty and to part <br />With all her vivid hue. <br /> <br />And while in hollow glades and dells of musk, <br />Her fellows will reflower in bands, <br />Clasping the deeps of shade and emerald dusk, <br />With sweet inviolate hands, <br /> <br />She will lie here, a ghost of their delight, <br />Their lucent stems all ashen gray, <br />Their purples fallen into pulvil white, <br />Dull as the bluebird's alula. <br /> <br />But her where human passions pulse in power, <br />She will transcend our Shakespeare's art, <br />From Desdemona to a smothered flower, <br />Will leap the tragic heart. <br /> <br />And memory will recall in keener mood <br />The precinct fair where passion grew, <br />The stars within the water in the wood, <br />The moonlit grove, the odorous dew. <br /> <br />The voice that throbbed along the summer dark <br />Will float and pause and thrill, <br />In lonely cadence silvern as the lark, <br />To fail below the hill. <br /> <br />The reader will grow weary of the play, <br />Finding his hearts half understood, <br />And with the young moon in the early dusk will stray <br />Beside the starry water in the wood.<br /><br />Duncan Campbell Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-violet-pressed-in-a-copy-of-shakespeare/
