The Sun Has Kissed The Violet Sea, And Burned The Violet To A Rose. O Sea! Wouldst Thou Not Better Be Mere Violet Still? Who Knows? Who Knows? Well Hides The Violet In The Wood: The Dead Leaf Wrinkles Her A Hood, And Winter'S Ill Is Violet'S Good; But The Bold Glory Of The Rose, It Quickly Comes And Quickly Goes - Red Petals Whirling In White Snows, Ah Me! The Sun Has Burnt The Rose-Red Sea: The Rose Is Turned To Ashes Gray. O Sea, O Sea, Mightst Thou But Be The Violet Thou Hast Been To-Day! The Sun Is Brave, The Sun Is Bright, The Sun Is Lord Of Love And Light; But After Him It Cometh Night. Dim Anguish Of The Lonesome Dark! - Once A Girl'S Body, Stiff And Stark, Was Laid In A Tomb Without A Mark, Ah Me! Macon, Georgia, 1868.