Tis a whisper in my ear

A past- a vail, a shadow!

Tis not dear

And none shall know

Clouded by a baby face

And innocence in all it’s grace,

None expect a violet of white

To be of violent feness,

Alas! tis but a letter to be the less.

The forbidden fruit was, at once my own creation

Apprentice of Helen, born of Bacchus

Dreamt of desolation

This the whisper in my ear

Tis the shadow that grows near.

A tumble more, one step less

And it shall know my address.