CHAPTER FOUR

I know that thou art the word of my God, dear violet.—SIDNEY LANIER.

I know that thou art the word of my God, dear violet.

—SIDNEY LANIER.

On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves,Spring’s earliest nurselings spread their glowing leaves,Bright with the hues from wider pictures won,White, azure, golden,—drift, or sky, or sun;—The snowdrop, bearing on her patient breastThe frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest;The violet, gazing on the arch of blueTill her own iris wears its deepened hue;The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould,Naked and shivering with his cup of gold.—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves,

Spring’s earliest nurselings spread their glowing leaves,

Bright with the hues from wider pictures won,

White, azure, golden,—drift, or sky, or sun;—

The snowdrop, bearing on her patient breast

The frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest;

The violet, gazing on the arch of blue

Till her own iris wears its deepened hue;

The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould,

Naked and shivering with his cup of gold.

—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

The meadow your walks have left so sweetThat wherever a March wind sighs,He sets the jewel-print of your feetIn violets blue as your eyes.—ALFRED TENNYSON.

The meadow your walks have left so sweet

That wherever a March wind sighs,

He sets the jewel-print of your feet

In violets blue as your eyes.

—ALFRED TENNYSON.

The warring hosts of Winter and of SpringAre hurtling o’er the plains.All night I heard their battle clarions ringAnd jar the window-panes.The saddened robins flit through leafless trees,And chirp with tuneless voice,And wait the conquering sun, the unbinding breeze;They cannot yet rejoice.Slowly the victor Spring her foe outflanks,And countermines his snows;Then, unawares, along the grassy banks,Her ambushed violets throws.—CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH.

The warring hosts of Winter and of SpringAre hurtling o’er the plains.All night I heard their battle clarions ringAnd jar the window-panes.

The warring hosts of Winter and of Spring

Are hurtling o’er the plains.

All night I heard their battle clarions ring

And jar the window-panes.

The saddened robins flit through leafless trees,And chirp with tuneless voice,And wait the conquering sun, the unbinding breeze;They cannot yet rejoice.

The saddened robins flit through leafless trees,

And chirp with tuneless voice,

And wait the conquering sun, the unbinding breeze;

They cannot yet rejoice.

Slowly the victor Spring her foe outflanks,And countermines his snows;Then, unawares, along the grassy banks,Her ambushed violets throws.—CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH.

Slowly the victor Spring her foe outflanks,

And countermines his snows;

Then, unawares, along the grassy banks,

Her ambushed violets throws.

—CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH.

Knowledge this man prizes bestSeems fantastic to the rest:Pondering shadows, colors, clouds,Grass-buds and caterpillar shrouds,Boughs on which the wild bees settle,Tints that spot the violet’s petal.—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Knowledge this man prizes best

Seems fantastic to the rest:

Pondering shadows, colors, clouds,

Grass-buds and caterpillar shrouds,

Boughs on which the wild bees settle,

Tints that spot the violet’s petal.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

But who hath breathed the scent of violetsAnd not that moment been some lover glad?—ARLO BATES.

But who hath breathed the scent of violets

And not that moment been some lover glad?

—ARLO BATES.

What blooms here,Filling the honeyed atmosphereWith faint, delicious fragrances,Freighted with blessed memories?The earliest March violet,Dear as the image of Regret,And beautiful as Hope.—EMMA LAZARUS.

What blooms here,

Filling the honeyed atmosphere

With faint, delicious fragrances,

Freighted with blessed memories?

The earliest March violet,

Dear as the image of Regret,

And beautiful as Hope.

—EMMA LAZARUS.

Violets and bilberry bells,Maple-sap and daffodels,Grass with green flag half-mast high.—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Violets and bilberry bells,

Maple-sap and daffodels,

Grass with green flag half-mast high.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Pit, pat, patter, clatter,Sudden sun, and clatter, patter!First the blue and then the shower;Bursting bud and smiling flower;Brooks set free with tinkling ring;Birds too full of song to sing;Crisp old leaves astir with pride,Where the timid violets hide:All things ready with a will—April’s coming up the hill!—MARY MAPES DODGE.

Pit, pat, patter, clatter,

Sudden sun, and clatter, patter!

First the blue and then the shower;

Bursting bud and smiling flower;

Brooks set free with tinkling ring;

Birds too full of song to sing;

Crisp old leaves astir with pride,

Where the timid violets hide:

All things ready with a will—

April’s coming up the hill!

—MARY MAPES DODGE.

Violets suit when homebirds build and sing.—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

Violets suit when homebirds build and sing.

—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

Radiant Sister of the Day,Awake, arise, and come awayTo the wild woods and the plains;To the pools where winter rainsImage all their roof of leaves;Where the pine its garland weaves,Of sapless green and ivy dim,Round stems that never kiss the sun;Where the lawns and pastures be,And the sand-hills of the sea;Where the melting hoar-frost wetsThe daisy-star that never sets;And wind-flowers and violets,Which yet join not scent to hue,Crown the pale year, weak and new.—PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Radiant Sister of the Day,

Awake, arise, and come away

To the wild woods and the plains;

To the pools where winter rains

Image all their roof of leaves;

Where the pine its garland weaves,

Of sapless green and ivy dim,

Round stems that never kiss the sun;

Where the lawns and pastures be,

And the sand-hills of the sea;

Where the melting hoar-frost wets

The daisy-star that never sets;

And wind-flowers and violets,

Which yet join not scent to hue,

Crown the pale year, weak and new.

—PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

CHAPTER FOUR

The lone violet, which for love’s own sake,Its life exhales in pure unconscious good.—FRANCES L. MACE.

The lone violet, which for love’s own sake,

Its life exhales in pure unconscious good.

—FRANCES L. MACE.

In my breastSpring wakens too; and my regretBecomes an April violet,And buds and blossoms like the rest.—ALFRED TENNYSON.

In my breast

Spring wakens too; and my regret

Becomes an April violet,

And buds and blossoms like the rest.

—ALFRED TENNYSON.

Deep violets you liken toThe kindest eyes that look on youWithout a thought disloyal.—ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Deep violets you liken to

The kindest eyes that look on you

Without a thought disloyal.

—ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

To thee the nymphs of the forest offer their store of lilies,And at thy feet fair Nais lays her violets pale.—VIRGIL.

To thee the nymphs of the forest offer their store of lilies,

And at thy feet fair Nais lays her violets pale.

—VIRGIL.

The wind sprang up in the tree-topsAnd shrieked with a voice of death,But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,Was touched with a violet’s breath.—PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR.

The wind sprang up in the tree-tops

And shrieked with a voice of death,

But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,

Was touched with a violet’s breath.

—PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR.

One morn a lad cried in the street,“Fresh violets!” and, as in answer sweet,A bluebird flung, bouquet-like, clear and strong,Athwart the misty window, his first song.—WILLIAM STRUTHERS.

One morn a lad cried in the street,

“Fresh violets!” and, as in answer sweet,

A bluebird flung, bouquet-like, clear and strong,

Athwart the misty window, his first song.

—WILLIAM STRUTHERS.

The April mornClimbs softly up the eastern sky,And glimmers through the milk-white thorn,Or dances where the violets lie.—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

The April morn

Climbs softly up the eastern sky,

And glimmers through the milk-white thorn,

Or dances where the violets lie.

—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

April violets glowIn wayside nooks, close clustering into groups,Like shy elves hiding from the traveler’s eye.—THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

April violets glow

In wayside nooks, close clustering into groups,

Like shy elves hiding from the traveler’s eye.

—THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Violets begin to blush;Speedwell opens too her eyeAnd the kingcup wooes the sky.—EDWARD CAPERN.

Violets begin to blush;

Speedwell opens too her eye

And the kingcup wooes the sky.

—EDWARD CAPERN.

It isn’t raining rain to me, but fields of clover bloom,Where any buccaneering bee can find a bed and room;A health unto the happy, and a fig for him who frets!It isn’t raining rain to me, it’s raining violets.—ANONYMOUS.

It isn’t raining rain to me, but fields of clover bloom,

Where any buccaneering bee can find a bed and room;

A health unto the happy, and a fig for him who frets!

It isn’t raining rain to me, it’s raining violets.

—ANONYMOUS.

She walked across the fields icebound,Like some shy, sunny hint of spring,And stooping suddenly she foundA violet, a dainty thing,Which shunned the chilly light of dayUntil sweet Aprille came that way.—HARRISON ROBERTSON.

She walked across the fields icebound,

Like some shy, sunny hint of spring,

And stooping suddenly she found

A violet, a dainty thing,

Which shunned the chilly light of day

Until sweet Aprille came that way.

—HARRISON ROBERTSON.

The violet trills, through the bluebird,Of the heaven that within her she feels.—LUCY LARCOM.

The violet trills, through the bluebird,

Of the heaven that within her she feels.

—LUCY LARCOM.

Like those same winds when, startled from their lair,They hunt up violets, and free swift brooksFrom icy caves, even as thy clear looksBid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care.—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Like those same winds when, startled from their lair,

They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks

From icy caves, even as thy clear looks

Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care.

—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

And now the other violets are crowding up to seeWhat welcome in this blustering world may chance for them to be.They lift themselves on slender stems in every shaded place,Heads over heads, all turned one way, wonder in every face.—LUCY LARCOM.

And now the other violets are crowding up to see

What welcome in this blustering world may chance for them to be.

They lift themselves on slender stems in every shaded place,

Heads over heads, all turned one way, wonder in every face.

—LUCY LARCOM.

It is April, crying sore and weepingO’er the chilly earth so brown and bare.“When I went away,” she murmurs, sobbing,“All my violet banks were starred with blue;Who, O who has been here, basely robbingBloom and odor from the fragrant crew?”Thus she plaineth. Then ten million voicesTiny, murmurous, like drops of rain,Raised in song as when the wind rejoices,Ring the answer, “We are here again!”—SARAH CHANNING WOOLSEY.

It is April, crying sore and weeping

O’er the chilly earth so brown and bare.

“When I went away,” she murmurs, sobbing,

“All my violet banks were starred with blue;

Who, O who has been here, basely robbing

Bloom and odor from the fragrant crew?”

Thus she plaineth. Then ten million voices

Tiny, murmurous, like drops of rain,

Raised in song as when the wind rejoices,

Ring the answer, “We are here again!”

—SARAH CHANNING WOOLSEY.

Now fades the last long streak of snow,Now bourgeons every maze of quickAbout the flowering squares, and thickBy ashen roots the violets grow.—ALFRED TENNYSON.

Now fades the last long streak of snow,

Now bourgeons every maze of quick

About the flowering squares, and thick

By ashen roots the violets grow.

—ALFRED TENNYSON.

Violets now, that strewThe green lap of the new-come spring.—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

Violets now, that strew

The green lap of the new-come spring.

—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

Elder boughs were budding yet,Oaken boughs looked wintry still,But primrose and veined violetIn the mossful turf were set,While mating birds made haste to singAnd build with right good-will.—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

Elder boughs were budding yet,

Oaken boughs looked wintry still,

But primrose and veined violet

In the mossful turf were set,

While mating birds made haste to sing

And build with right good-will.

—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

Violets,Which April ne’er forgets!—EMILY S. OAKEY.

Violets,

Which April ne’er forgets!

—EMILY S. OAKEY.

Sweetly breathing, vernal air,That with kind warmth doth repairWinter’s ruins; from whose breastAll the gums and spice o’ the EastBorrow their perfumes; whose eyeGilds the morn, and clears the sky;Whose disheveled tresses shedPearls upon the violet bed.—THOMAS CAREW.

Sweetly breathing, vernal air,

That with kind warmth doth repair

Winter’s ruins; from whose breast

All the gums and spice o’ the East

Borrow their perfumes; whose eye

Gilds the morn, and clears the sky;

Whose disheveled tresses shed

Pearls upon the violet bed.

—THOMAS CAREW.

A wealth of clover clothes the placeWhere, clad in buff-lined coats of blue,Our countrymen o’erthrewTheir alien foe; and violets effaceAll signs of combat.—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.

A wealth of clover clothes the place

Where, clad in buff-lined coats of blue,

Our countrymen o’erthrew

Their alien foe; and violets efface

All signs of combat.

—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.

Down through the sunshineWings flutter and fly;—Quick, little violet,Open your eye!—LUCY LARCOM.

Down through the sunshine

Wings flutter and fly;—

Quick, little violet,

Open your eye!

—LUCY LARCOM.

Where violets hide,Where star-flowers strew the rivulet’s side,And blue-birds, in the misty spring,Of cloudless skies and summer sing.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Where violets hide,

Where star-flowers strew the rivulet’s side,

And blue-birds, in the misty spring,

Of cloudless skies and summer sing.

—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Here the first violetsPerhaps will bud unseen,And a dove, maybe,Return to nestle here.—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

Here the first violets

Perhaps will bud unseen,

And a dove, maybe,

Return to nestle here.

—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

In winter, when the garden-plots were bare,And deep winds piloted the shriven snow,He saw its gleaming in the cottage fire,While, with a book of botany on his knee,He sat and hunger’d for a breath of spring.Here beds of roses sweetened all the page;Here lilies whiter than the falling snowCrept gleaming softly from the printed lines;Here dewy violets sparkled till the bookDazzled his eyes with rays of misty blue.—ROBERT BUCHANAN.

In winter, when the garden-plots were bare,

And deep winds piloted the shriven snow,

He saw its gleaming in the cottage fire,

While, with a book of botany on his knee,

He sat and hunger’d for a breath of spring.

Here beds of roses sweetened all the page;

Here lilies whiter than the falling snow

Crept gleaming softly from the printed lines;

Here dewy violets sparkled till the book

Dazzled his eyes with rays of misty blue.

—ROBERT BUCHANAN.

Die blauen Veilchen der Aengelein,Die rothen Rosen der Wängelein,Die weissen Lilien der Händchen klein,Die blühen und blühen noch immerfort,Und nur das Herzchen ist verdorrt.—HEINRICH HEINE.

Die blauen Veilchen der Aengelein,

Die rothen Rosen der Wängelein,

Die weissen Lilien der Händchen klein,

Die blühen und blühen noch immerfort,

Und nur das Herzchen ist verdorrt.

—HEINRICH HEINE.

Again has come the springtimeWith the crocus’ golden bloom,With the smell of the fresh-turned earth mouldAnd the violet’s perfume.—SAMUEL LONGFELLOW.

Again has come the springtime

With the crocus’ golden bloom,

With the smell of the fresh-turned earth mould

And the violet’s perfume.

—SAMUEL LONGFELLOW.

Under the green hedges, after the snow,There do the dear little violets grow,Hiding their modest and beautiful headsUnder the hawthorne in soft, mossy beds.—JOHN MOULTRIE.

Under the green hedges, after the snow,

There do the dear little violets grow,

Hiding their modest and beautiful heads

Under the hawthorne in soft, mossy beds.

—JOHN MOULTRIE.

A duller sense than mine should feelThe stir in nature’s warming soul;It makes the shouting bluebirds reel,And bursts the violet’s twisted scroll.—GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

A duller sense than mine should feel

The stir in nature’s warming soul;

It makes the shouting bluebirds reel,

And bursts the violet’s twisted scroll.

—GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

I see Thee in the distant blue,But in the violet’s dell of dew,Behold, I breathe and touch Thee, too.—JOHN B. TABB.

I see Thee in the distant blue,

But in the violet’s dell of dew,

Behold, I breathe and touch Thee, too.

—JOHN B. TABB.

Spring sat dejected in a sheltered nookAnd sighed because of the long-lingering snow,And prayed that warm, life-giving winds might blow;When at her feet there grew, with trembling look,A violet that whispered: “I forsookMy cell to comfort thee and still thy woe.”Then, filled with hope, Spring said: “I now shall goAnd greet each hill and vale and winding brook.”Where’er she went, earth blessed her with its flowers:Arbutus, columbines, anemones,And sunny marigolds that deck the wetLowlands. But in the soothing moonlit hours,When dreaming ’neath the blossom-laden trees,She holds with loving hands the violet.—JOHN LUTHER BRENIZER.

Spring sat dejected in a sheltered nook

And sighed because of the long-lingering snow,

And prayed that warm, life-giving winds might blow;

When at her feet there grew, with trembling look,

A violet that whispered: “I forsook

My cell to comfort thee and still thy woe.”

Then, filled with hope, Spring said: “I now shall go

And greet each hill and vale and winding brook.”

Where’er she went, earth blessed her with its flowers:

Arbutus, columbines, anemones,

And sunny marigolds that deck the wet

Lowlands. But in the soothing moonlit hours,

When dreaming ’neath the blossom-laden trees,

She holds with loving hands the violet.

—JOHN LUTHER BRENIZER.

Ein kleines blau VeilchenStand eben erst ein WeilchenUnten im Thal am Bach;Da dacht’ es einmal nachUnd sprach:“Dass ich hier unten blüh’Lohnt sich kaum der Müh’;Muss mich überall bückenUnd drücken.Ei,” spricht’ es, “hier ist’s schön,Aber alles kann man doch nicht sehen;So ein BergIst doch nur ein Schwerz;Auf der Alp da droben,Das wär, eher zu loben:Da möcht’ ich wohl sein,Da gückt’ ich bis in Himmel hinein.”—FRIEDRICH FÖRSTER.

Ein kleines blau Veilchen

Stand eben erst ein Weilchen

Unten im Thal am Bach;

Da dacht’ es einmal nach

Und sprach:

“Dass ich hier unten blüh’

Lohnt sich kaum der Müh’;

Muss mich überall bücken

Und drücken.

Ei,” spricht’ es, “hier ist’s schön,

Aber alles kann man doch nicht sehen;

So ein Berg

Ist doch nur ein Schwerz;

Auf der Alp da droben,

Das wär, eher zu loben:

Da möcht’ ich wohl sein,

Da gückt’ ich bis in Himmel hinein.”

—FRIEDRICH FÖRSTER.

CHAPTER FIVE

O violet, blue-eyed violet,Scented with sweetest breath!—CAROLINE A. SOULE.

O violet, blue-eyed violet,

Scented with sweetest breath!

—CAROLINE A. SOULE.

Up from the sweet South comes the lingering May,Sets the first wind-flower trembling on its stem;Scatters her violets with lavish hands,White, blue and amber.—CELIA THAXTER.

Up from the sweet South comes the lingering May,

Sets the first wind-flower trembling on its stem;

Scatters her violets with lavish hands,

White, blue and amber.

—CELIA THAXTER.

The vales shall laugh in flowers, the woodsGrow misty-green with leafing buds,And violets and wind-flowers swayAgainst the throbbing heart of May.—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The vales shall laugh in flowers, the woods

Grow misty-green with leafing buds,

And violets and wind-flowers sway

Against the throbbing heart of May.

—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

When springtime comes,Primrose and violet haunt the mossy bank.—HENRY G. HEWLETT.

When springtime comes,

Primrose and violet haunt the mossy bank.

—HENRY G. HEWLETT.

Rosy and white on the wanton breezeThe petals fall from the apple-trees,And under the hedge where the shade lies wetAre children, picking the violet.—F. W. BOURDILLON.

Rosy and white on the wanton breeze

The petals fall from the apple-trees,

And under the hedge where the shade lies wet

Are children, picking the violet.

—F. W. BOURDILLON.

The same sweet sounds are in my earMy early childhood loved to hear.The violet there, in soft May dew,Comes up, as modest and as true.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

The same sweet sounds are in my ear

My early childhood loved to hear.

The violet there, in soft May dew,

Comes up, as modest and as true.

—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Farewell to thee, France! but when Liberty ralliesOnce more in thy regions, remember me then—The violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys,Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again.—LORD BYRON.

Farewell to thee, France! but when Liberty rallies

Once more in thy regions, remember me then—

The violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys,

Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again.

—LORD BYRON.

Where the rose doth wear her blushesLike a garment, and the fairAnd modest violets sit together,Weaving, in mild May weather,Purples out of dew and airFit for any queen to wear.—ALICE CARY.

Where the rose doth wear her blushes

Like a garment, and the fair

And modest violets sit together,

Weaving, in mild May weather,

Purples out of dew and air

Fit for any queen to wear.

—ALICE CARY.

Hear the rain whisper,“Dear violet, come!”—LUCY LARCOM.

Hear the rain whisper,

“Dear violet, come!”

—LUCY LARCOM.

On every sunny hillock spread,The pale primrose lifts her head;Rich with sweets, the western galeSweeps along the cowslip’d dale;Every bank, with violets gay,Smiles to welcome in the May.—ROBERT SOUTHEY.

On every sunny hillock spread,

The pale primrose lifts her head;

Rich with sweets, the western gale

Sweeps along the cowslip’d dale;

Every bank, with violets gay,

Smiles to welcome in the May.

—ROBERT SOUTHEY.

The air was soft and fresh and sweet;The slopes in spring’s new verdure lay,And wet with dew-drops at my feetBloomed the young violets of May.—JOHN HOWARD BRYANT.

The air was soft and fresh and sweet;

The slopes in spring’s new verdure lay,

And wet with dew-drops at my feet

Bloomed the young violets of May.

—JOHN HOWARD BRYANT.

In each hedgerow spring must hastenCowslips sweet to set;And under every leaf, in shadowHide a violet.—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

In each hedgerow spring must hasten

Cowslips sweet to set;

And under every leaf, in shadow

Hide a violet.

—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

The buds of April had burst into bloom on the willow and maple,Fresh with dew was the sod, with dim blue violets sprinkled.—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.

The buds of April had burst into bloom on the willow and maple,

Fresh with dew was the sod, with dim blue violets sprinkled.

—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.

The dream of winter broken,Behold her, blue and dear,Shy Violet, sure tokenThat April’s here!—FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

The dream of winter broken,

Behold her, blue and dear,

Shy Violet, sure token

That April’s here!

—FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

Not the first violet on a woodland leaSeemed a more visible gift of Spring than she.—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Not the first violet on a woodland lea

Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she.

—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

No more shall meads be decked with flowers,Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers,Nor greenest buds on branches spring,Nor warbling birds delight to sing,Nor April violets paint the grove,If I forsake my Celia’s love.—THOMAS CAREW.

No more shall meads be decked with flowers,

Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers,

Nor greenest buds on branches spring,

Nor warbling birds delight to sing,

Nor April violets paint the grove,

If I forsake my Celia’s love.

—THOMAS CAREW.

And O, and O,The daisies blow,And the primroses are wakened;And the violets whiteSit in silver light,And the green buds are long in the spike end.—OLD ENGLISH SONG.

And O, and O,

The daisies blow,

And the primroses are wakened;

And the violets white

Sit in silver light,

And the green buds are long in the spike end.

—OLD ENGLISH SONG.

A violet that nestles cheek to the mellowed ground;The humming of a happy brook about its daily round;The woody breath of pines; the smell of loosening sods;Such simple links of being,—such common things of God’s.—ELLA M. BAKER.

A violet that nestles cheek to the mellowed ground;

The humming of a happy brook about its daily round;

The woody breath of pines; the smell of loosening sods;

Such simple links of being,—such common things of God’s.

—ELLA M. BAKER.

Merry, ever-merry May!Made of sunbeams, shade and showers,Bursting buds and breathing flowers!Dripping locked and rosy-vested,Violet slippered, rainbow crested.—WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

Merry, ever-merry May!

Made of sunbeams, shade and showers,

Bursting buds and breathing flowers!

Dripping locked and rosy-vested,

Violet slippered, rainbow crested.

—WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

There were banks of purple violet,And arbutus, first whisper of the May.—FRANCES L. MACE.

There were banks of purple violet,

And arbutus, first whisper of the May.

—FRANCES L. MACE.

Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red,From thee the violet steals its breath in May.—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red,

From thee the violet steals its breath in May.

—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Beneath my feetThe ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,Running over the club-moss burrs;I inhaled the violet’s breath;Around me stood the oaks and firs;Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;Over me soared the eternal sky,Full of light and of deity;Beauty through my senses stole,—I yielded myself to the perfect whole.—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Beneath my feet

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,

Running over the club-moss burrs;

I inhaled the violet’s breath;

Around me stood the oaks and firs;

Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;

Over me soared the eternal sky,

Full of light and of deity;

Beauty through my senses stole,—

I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Now the tender, sweet arbutusTrails her blossom-clustered vines,And the many-figured cinquefoilIn the shady hollow twines;Here, behind this crumbled tree-trunk,With the cooling showers wet,Fresh and upright, blooms the sunnyGolden-yellow violet.—DORA READ GOODALE.

Now the tender, sweet arbutus

Trails her blossom-clustered vines,

And the many-figured cinquefoil

In the shady hollow twines;

Here, behind this crumbled tree-trunk,

With the cooling showers wet,

Fresh and upright, blooms the sunny

Golden-yellow violet.

—DORA READ GOODALE.

Saintly violets, plucked in bosky dell.—CLINTON SCOLLARD.

Saintly violets, plucked in bosky dell.

—CLINTON SCOLLARD.

Thy feasting tables shall be hillsWith daisies spread, and daffadils;Where thou shalt sit, and red-brest by,For meat, shall give thee melody.Ile give thee chaines and carkanetsOf primroses and violets.—ROBERT HERRICK.

Thy feasting tables shall be hills

With daisies spread, and daffadils;

Where thou shalt sit, and red-brest by,

For meat, shall give thee melody.

Ile give thee chaines and carkanets

Of primroses and violets.

—ROBERT HERRICK.

With saucy gesturePrimroses flare,And roguish violetsHidden with care.And whatsoeverThere stirs and strives,The spring’s contented,It works and thrives.—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

With saucy gesture

Primroses flare,

And roguish violets

Hidden with care.

And whatsoever

There stirs and strives,

The spring’s contented,

It works and thrives.

—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

White violets, pure violets,That might be wreathed in coronetsFor baby brows of spotless mould,That no earth shadows overfold;White winsome things with dovelike wingsThat brood in grassy nest,As thick as stars no tempest marsWith presence of unrest.—EMILY S. OAKEY.

White violets, pure violets,

That might be wreathed in coronets

For baby brows of spotless mould,

That no earth shadows overfold;

White winsome things with dovelike wings

That brood in grassy nest,

As thick as stars no tempest mars

With presence of unrest.

—EMILY S. OAKEY.

Look forth, Beloved, through the tender air,And let thine eyesThe violets be.—BAYARD TAYLOR.

Look forth, Beloved, through the tender air,

And let thine eyes

The violets be.

—BAYARD TAYLOR.

The violets whisper from the shadeWhich their own leaves have made:“Men scent our fragrance on the air,Yet take no heedOf humble lessons we would read.”—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

The violets whisper from the shade

Which their own leaves have made:

“Men scent our fragrance on the air,

Yet take no heed

Of humble lessons we would read.”

—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

The gentle driftOf odorous distillings in the air,Daffodils growing on the field’s green breast,Buds all a-blow, and the enchanted breathOf violets peeping in the damp hedgerow,Kindled to being.—CHRISTINA CATHERINE LIDDELL.

The gentle drift

Of odorous distillings in the air,

Daffodils growing on the field’s green breast,

Buds all a-blow, and the enchanted breath

Of violets peeping in the damp hedgerow,

Kindled to being.

—CHRISTINA CATHERINE LIDDELL.

That young May violet to me is dear,And I visit the silent streamlet near,To look on the lovely flower.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

That young May violet to me is dear,

And I visit the silent streamlet near,

To look on the lovely flower.

—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

The larch has donned its rosy plumes,And hastes its emerald beads to string:The warblers now are on the wing,Across the pathless ocean glooms.Through tender grass and violet bloomsI move along and gaily sing.—RICHARD WILTON.

The larch has donned its rosy plumes,

And hastes its emerald beads to string:

The warblers now are on the wing,

Across the pathless ocean glooms.

Through tender grass and violet blooms

I move along and gaily sing.

—RICHARD WILTON.

Violets stir and arbutus wakes,Claytonia’s rosy bells unfold;Dandelion through the meadow makesA royal road, with seals of gold.—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

Violets stir and arbutus wakes,

Claytonia’s rosy bells unfold;

Dandelion through the meadow makes

A royal road, with seals of gold.

—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

Dear little violet,Don’t be afraid!Lift your blue eyesFrom the rock’s mossy shade!All the birds call for youOut of the sky:May is here, waiting,And so, too, am I.Come, pretty violet,Winter’s away:Come, for without youMay isn’t May.Now all is beautifulUnder the sky.May’s here—and violets!Winter, good-bye!—LUCY LARCOM.

Dear little violet,Don’t be afraid!Lift your blue eyesFrom the rock’s mossy shade!

Dear little violet,

Don’t be afraid!

Lift your blue eyes

From the rock’s mossy shade!

All the birds call for youOut of the sky:May is here, waiting,And so, too, am I.

All the birds call for you

Out of the sky:

May is here, waiting,

And so, too, am I.

Come, pretty violet,Winter’s away:Come, for without youMay isn’t May.

Come, pretty violet,

Winter’s away:

Come, for without you

May isn’t May.

Now all is beautifulUnder the sky.May’s here—and violets!Winter, good-bye!—LUCY LARCOM.

Now all is beautiful

Under the sky.

May’s here—and violets!

Winter, good-bye!

—LUCY LARCOM.

Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace,Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first,The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue.—JAMES THOMSON.

Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace,

Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first,

The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue.

—JAMES THOMSON.

While May bedecks the naked treesWith tassels and embroideries,And many blue-eyed violets beamAlong the edges of the stream.—HENRY VAN DYKE.

While May bedecks the naked trees

With tassels and embroideries,

And many blue-eyed violets beam

Along the edges of the stream.

—HENRY VAN DYKE.

The country ever has a lagging spring,Waiting for May to call its violets forth,And June its roses.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

The country ever has a lagging spring,

Waiting for May to call its violets forth,

And June its roses.

—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

And in the meadows soft, on either hand,Blossomed white parsley and the violet.—HOMER.

And in the meadows soft, on either hand,

Blossomed white parsley and the violet.

—HOMER.

Welcome, maids of honor,You do bringIn the Spring,And wait upon her.She has virgins manyFresh and fair,Yet you areMore sweet than any.Ye are the maiden posiesAnd so gracedTo be placed’Fore damask roses.—ROBERT HERRICK.

Welcome, maids of honor,You do bringIn the Spring,And wait upon her.

Welcome, maids of honor,

You do bring

In the Spring,

And wait upon her.

She has virgins manyFresh and fair,Yet you areMore sweet than any.

She has virgins many

Fresh and fair,

Yet you are

More sweet than any.

Ye are the maiden posiesAnd so gracedTo be placed’Fore damask roses.—ROBERT HERRICK.

Ye are the maiden posies

And so graced

To be placed

’Fore damask roses.

—ROBERT HERRICK.

Tute le barche parte via sta note,E quela del mio ben doman de note;Tute le barche cargarà de tole,E quela del mio ben de rose e viole.—VENETIAN SONG.

Tute le barche parte via sta note,

E quela del mio ben doman de note;

Tute le barche cargarà de tole,

E quela del mio ben de rose e viole.

—VENETIAN SONG.

CHAPTER SIX

Better to smell the violet cool,Than sip the glowing wine.—GEORGE MACDONALD.

Better to smell the violet cool,

Than sip the glowing wine.

—GEORGE MACDONALD.

Wooed by the June day’s fervent breath,Violets opened their violet eyes.—LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

Wooed by the June day’s fervent breath,

Violets opened their violet eyes.

—LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

The wind, that poet of the elements,Tonight comes whistling down our tropic lanes,And wakes the slumbrous hours with sweet refrains.······Before the pilgrim minstrel violets placeThe purple censers of their fervent youth.—MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND.

The wind, that poet of the elements,

Tonight comes whistling down our tropic lanes,

And wakes the slumbrous hours with sweet refrains.

······

Before the pilgrim minstrel violets place

The purple censers of their fervent youth.

—MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND.

Now in snowdrops pure and paleBreaks the sere grass; the violet rends her veil.—HENRY G. HEWLETT.

Now in snowdrops pure and pale

Breaks the sere grass; the violet rends her veil.

—HENRY G. HEWLETT.

The violet’s charms I prize, indeed,So modest ’tis, and fair.—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

The violet’s charms I prize, indeed,

So modest ’tis, and fair.

—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

Seek the bank where flowering elders crowd,Where scattered wild the lily of the valeIts balmy essence breathes; where cowslips hangThe dewy head, where purple violets lurkWith all the lowly children of the shade.—JAMES THOMSON.

Seek the bank where flowering elders crowd,

Where scattered wild the lily of the vale

Its balmy essence breathes; where cowslips hang

The dewy head, where purple violets lurk

With all the lowly children of the shade.

—JAMES THOMSON.

So then the world’s repeating its old story?Once more, thank God, its fairest page we turn!The violets and mayflowers, like the gloryOf gold and color in old missals, burnWith fadeless shimmering;These are its headings and vignettes. The heartBeats quicker when the Book of Life apartFalls at the page of Spring!—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

So then the world’s repeating its old story?

Once more, thank God, its fairest page we turn!

The violets and mayflowers, like the glory

Of gold and color in old missals, burn

With fadeless shimmering;

These are its headings and vignettes. The heart

Beats quicker when the Book of Life apart

Falls at the page of Spring!

—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

Currents of fragrance, from the orange-tree,And sward of violets, breathing to and fro,Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea,Refresh the idle boatman where they blow.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Currents of fragrance, from the orange-tree,

And sward of violets, breathing to and fro,

Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea,

Refresh the idle boatman where they blow.

—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Close by the roots of moss-grown stumps,The sweetest and the first to blow,The blue-eyed violets, in clumps,Kiss one another as they grow.—ANONYMOUS.

Close by the roots of moss-grown stumps,

The sweetest and the first to blow,

The blue-eyed violets, in clumps,

Kiss one another as they grow.

—ANONYMOUS.

The purple heath and golden broomOn moory mountains catch the gale,O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume,The violet in the vale.—JAMES MONTGOMERY.

The purple heath and golden broom

On moory mountains catch the gale,

O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume,

The violet in the vale.

—JAMES MONTGOMERY.

She who sung so gently to the luteHer dream of home, steals timidly away,Shrinking as violets do in summer’s ray.—THOMAS MOORE.

She who sung so gently to the lute

Her dream of home, steals timidly away,

Shrinking as violets do in summer’s ray.

—THOMAS MOORE.

Lead me where amid the tranquil valeThe broken streamlet flows in silver light;And I will linger when the galeO’er the bank of violets sighs,Listening to hear its softened sounds arise.—ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Lead me where amid the tranquil vale

The broken streamlet flows in silver light;

And I will linger when the gale

O’er the bank of violets sighs,

Listening to hear its softened sounds arise.

—ROBERT SOUTHEY.

In lower pools that seeAll their marges clothed all aroundWith the innumerable lily;Whence the golden-girdled beeFlits through flowering rush to fretWhite or duskier violet.—ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE.

In lower pools that see

All their marges clothed all around

With the innumerable lily;

Whence the golden-girdled bee

Flits through flowering rush to fret

White or duskier violet.

—ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE.

Blue violets, blithe violets,Who that is human e’er forgetsYour brightness and your blithesomeness,Your innocent meek tenderness,That e’er hath stood in budding woodAnd seen you at his feet,Like rarest elves that deck themselvesIn fairyhood complete,Though blue as mist the sun has kissedIn valleys wild and sweet?—EMILY S. OAKEY.

Blue violets, blithe violets,

Who that is human e’er forgets

Your brightness and your blithesomeness,

Your innocent meek tenderness,

That e’er hath stood in budding wood

And seen you at his feet,

Like rarest elves that deck themselves

In fairyhood complete,

Though blue as mist the sun has kissed

In valleys wild and sweet?

—EMILY S. OAKEY.

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,In purple’s richest pride arrayed,Your errand here fulfil;Go bid the artist’s simple stainYour lustre imitate in vain,And match your Master’s skill.—ANONYMOUS.

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,

In purple’s richest pride arrayed,

Your errand here fulfil;

Go bid the artist’s simple stain

Your lustre imitate in vain,

And match your Master’s skill.

—ANONYMOUS.

They are the nation of the bees,Born from the breath of flowers.Low in the violet’s breast of blueFor treasured food they sink;They know the flowers that hold the dewFor their small race to drink.—ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.

They are the nation of the bees,

Born from the breath of flowers.

Low in the violet’s breast of blue

For treasured food they sink;

They know the flowers that hold the dew

For their small race to drink.

—ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.

Sweet-brier, leaning on the cragThat the lady-fern hides under;Harebells, violets white and blue:Who has sweeter flowers, I wonder?—LUCY LARCOM.

Sweet-brier, leaning on the crag

That the lady-fern hides under;

Harebells, violets white and blue:

Who has sweeter flowers, I wonder?

—LUCY LARCOM.

Violet, delicate, sweet,Down in the deep of the wood,Hid in thy still retreat,Far from the sound of the street,Man and his merciless mood.—COSMO MONKHOUSE.

Violet, delicate, sweet,

Down in the deep of the wood,

Hid in thy still retreat,

Far from the sound of the street,

Man and his merciless mood.

—COSMO MONKHOUSE.

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows.—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,

Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows.

—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

Under foot the violet,Crocus and hyacinth, with rich inlay,Broidered the ground.—JOHN MILTON.

Under foot the violet,

Crocus and hyacinth, with rich inlay,

Broidered the ground.

—JOHN MILTON.

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