Pansies in soft April rains Fill their stalks with honeyed sap Drawn from Earth's prolific lap.

And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Darker than darkest pansies.

Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Yet marked O where the bolt of Cupid fell. It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

The delicate thought, that cannot find expression, For ruder speech too fair, That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, And scatters on the air.