In my veins a music as of boughsWhen the cool aspen-fingers of the rainFeel for the eyelids of the earth in spring.In every vein quick life; within my soulThe meekness of some sweet eternityForgot; and in my eyes soft violet-thoughtsThat widen’d in the eye-ball to the light,And peep’d, and trembled chilly back to the soulLike leaves of violets closing.—ROBERT BUCHANAN.
In my veins a music as of boughsWhen the cool aspen-fingers of the rainFeel for the eyelids of the earth in spring.In every vein quick life; within my soulThe meekness of some sweet eternityForgot; and in my eyes soft violet-thoughtsThat widen’d in the eye-ball to the light,And peep’d, and trembled chilly back to the soulLike leaves of violets closing.—ROBERT BUCHANAN.
In my veins a music as of boughs
When the cool aspen-fingers of the rain
Feel for the eyelids of the earth in spring.
In every vein quick life; within my soul
The meekness of some sweet eternity
Forgot; and in my eyes soft violet-thoughts
That widen’d in the eye-ball to the light,
And peep’d, and trembled chilly back to the soul
Like leaves of violets closing.
—ROBERT BUCHANAN.
A little child with wondering, wide blue eyesShining with ecstasy, yet dimmed with tears,As though a sudden joy strove with her fearsOnly half conquered, while a sweet surpriseLike the first radiant glow of dawning skiesIn the uplifted, wistful face appears;Her tiny foot advanced, as one who nearsThe gates of some long-wished-for Paradise,—With parted lips the timid maiden standsClothed in her childish robe of spotless white;Close to her bosom, in her little hands,Clasping a knot of violets, all brightWith morning dew, and shyly whisperingIn tones of bird and streamlet: “I am Spring!”—WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
A little child with wondering, wide blue eyesShining with ecstasy, yet dimmed with tears,As though a sudden joy strove with her fearsOnly half conquered, while a sweet surpriseLike the first radiant glow of dawning skiesIn the uplifted, wistful face appears;Her tiny foot advanced, as one who nearsThe gates of some long-wished-for Paradise,—With parted lips the timid maiden standsClothed in her childish robe of spotless white;Close to her bosom, in her little hands,Clasping a knot of violets, all brightWith morning dew, and shyly whisperingIn tones of bird and streamlet: “I am Spring!”—WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
A little child with wondering, wide blue eyes
Shining with ecstasy, yet dimmed with tears,
As though a sudden joy strove with her fears
Only half conquered, while a sweet surprise
Like the first radiant glow of dawning skies
In the uplifted, wistful face appears;
Her tiny foot advanced, as one who nears
The gates of some long-wished-for Paradise,—
With parted lips the timid maiden stands
Clothed in her childish robe of spotless white;
Close to her bosom, in her little hands,
Clasping a knot of violets, all bright
With morning dew, and shyly whispering
In tones of bird and streamlet: “I am Spring!”
—WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
Now boys and laughing girls pluck violetsAnd all the dainty wildflowers of the field.—OVID.
Now boys and laughing girls pluck violetsAnd all the dainty wildflowers of the field.—OVID.
Now boys and laughing girls pluck violets
And all the dainty wildflowers of the field.
—OVID.
She is so noble, firm and true,I drink truth from her eyes,As violets gain the heavens’ own blueIn gazing at the skies.—JOHN HAY.
She is so noble, firm and true,I drink truth from her eyes,As violets gain the heavens’ own blueIn gazing at the skies.—JOHN HAY.
She is so noble, firm and true,
I drink truth from her eyes,
As violets gain the heavens’ own blue
In gazing at the skies.
—JOHN HAY.
The violet in her greenwood bowerWhere birchen boughs with hazels mingle,May boast itself the fairest flowerIn glen, or copse, or forest dingle.—SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The violet in her greenwood bowerWhere birchen boughs with hazels mingle,May boast itself the fairest flowerIn glen, or copse, or forest dingle.—SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The violet in her greenwood bower
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
—SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The lone violet which for love’s own sakeIts life exhales in pure unconscious good,Some sunless glen a glowing shrine to make,With urn of incense in the solitude.—FRANCES L. MACE.
The lone violet which for love’s own sakeIts life exhales in pure unconscious good,Some sunless glen a glowing shrine to make,With urn of incense in the solitude.—FRANCES L. MACE.
The lone violet which for love’s own sake
Its life exhales in pure unconscious good,
Some sunless glen a glowing shrine to make,
With urn of incense in the solitude.
—FRANCES L. MACE.
The wild rose sends a honeyed breathTo woo the bee from neighboring wold;The violet holds its dainty cupTo catch the morning’s earliest gold.—W. M. L. JAY.
The wild rose sends a honeyed breathTo woo the bee from neighboring wold;The violet holds its dainty cupTo catch the morning’s earliest gold.—W. M. L. JAY.
The wild rose sends a honeyed breath
To woo the bee from neighboring wold;
The violet holds its dainty cup
To catch the morning’s earliest gold.
—W. M. L. JAY.
Her passions the shy violetFrom Hafiz never hides.Love-longings of the raptured birdThe bird to him confides.—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Her passions the shy violetFrom Hafiz never hides.Love-longings of the raptured birdThe bird to him confides.—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Her passions the shy violet
From Hafiz never hides.
Love-longings of the raptured bird
The bird to him confides.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
They knew me not,—blue flower, blue eyes;She, careless, passed me when we met;The tender glance which I would prizeAbove all things, the violetReceived, and I went on my way,Companioned with the cheerless day.—HARRISON ROBERTSON.
They knew me not,—blue flower, blue eyes;She, careless, passed me when we met;The tender glance which I would prizeAbove all things, the violetReceived, and I went on my way,Companioned with the cheerless day.—HARRISON ROBERTSON.
They knew me not,—blue flower, blue eyes;
She, careless, passed me when we met;
The tender glance which I would prize
Above all things, the violet
Received, and I went on my way,
Companioned with the cheerless day.
—HARRISON ROBERTSON.
Like some immortal heathen thing,All fresh with bloom, with odor sweet,With brook and bird and breeze in tune,The beautiful bright earth of JuneMoves to the fullness of her noon,While serving sunbeams round her flingThe purple violets as they fleet.—HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
Like some immortal heathen thing,All fresh with bloom, with odor sweet,With brook and bird and breeze in tune,The beautiful bright earth of JuneMoves to the fullness of her noon,While serving sunbeams round her flingThe purple violets as they fleet.—HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
Like some immortal heathen thing,
All fresh with bloom, with odor sweet,
With brook and bird and breeze in tune,
The beautiful bright earth of June
Moves to the fullness of her noon,
While serving sunbeams round her fling
The purple violets as they fleet.
—HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
Run, little rivulet, run!Sing of the flowers, every one,—Of the delicate harebell and violet blue;Of the red mountain rosebud, all dripping with dew.—LUCY LARCOM.
Run, little rivulet, run!Sing of the flowers, every one,—Of the delicate harebell and violet blue;Of the red mountain rosebud, all dripping with dew.—LUCY LARCOM.
Run, little rivulet, run!
Sing of the flowers, every one,—
Of the delicate harebell and violet blue;
Of the red mountain rosebud, all dripping with dew.
—LUCY LARCOM.
Safe from the storm and the heat,Breathing of beauty and good,Fragrantly, under thy hood,Violet!—COSMO MONKHOUSE.
Safe from the storm and the heat,Breathing of beauty and good,Fragrantly, under thy hood,Violet!—COSMO MONKHOUSE.
Safe from the storm and the heat,
Breathing of beauty and good,
Fragrantly, under thy hood,
Violet!
—COSMO MONKHOUSE.
O violets, blue-eyed violets!Scented with sweetest breath,You seem, as I stoop to pluck you,To whisper, “There is no death.”—CAROLINE A. SOULE.
O violets, blue-eyed violets!Scented with sweetest breath,You seem, as I stoop to pluck you,To whisper, “There is no death.”—CAROLINE A. SOULE.
O violets, blue-eyed violets!
Scented with sweetest breath,
You seem, as I stoop to pluck you,
To whisper, “There is no death.”
—CAROLINE A. SOULE.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A shadowy nook, where half afraidOf their own loveliness, some violets lie.—OSCAR WILDE.
A shadowy nook, where half afraidOf their own loveliness, some violets lie.—OSCAR WILDE.
A shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness, some violets lie.
—OSCAR WILDE.
Soft-throated South, breathing of summer’s ease,Sweet breath, whereof the violet’s life is made!—GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.
Soft-throated South, breathing of summer’s ease,Sweet breath, whereof the violet’s life is made!—GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.
Soft-throated South, breathing of summer’s ease,
Sweet breath, whereof the violet’s life is made!
—GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.
I heard the laughter of a brook,A tiny brook, that babbled throughThe fields and told the tales it tookOf bird and reed and water-thing;And stooping low I saw a gleamOf violets that nodded toTheir gay reflection in the stream.—MARY F. FAXON.
I heard the laughter of a brook,A tiny brook, that babbled throughThe fields and told the tales it tookOf bird and reed and water-thing;And stooping low I saw a gleamOf violets that nodded toTheir gay reflection in the stream.—MARY F. FAXON.
I heard the laughter of a brook,
A tiny brook, that babbled through
The fields and told the tales it took
Of bird and reed and water-thing;
And stooping low I saw a gleam
Of violets that nodded to
Their gay reflection in the stream.
—MARY F. FAXON.
More shy than the shy violetHiding when the wind doth pass.—ELLEN M. CORTISSOZ.
More shy than the shy violetHiding when the wind doth pass.—ELLEN M. CORTISSOZ.
More shy than the shy violet
Hiding when the wind doth pass.
—ELLEN M. CORTISSOZ.
The ferns bend low, the grasses lean,As doing homage to a queen,The fairest queens that ever smiledOn cavalier, or king beguiled:Oh, sweet and tender violets!—M. D. TOLMAN.
The ferns bend low, the grasses lean,As doing homage to a queen,The fairest queens that ever smiledOn cavalier, or king beguiled:Oh, sweet and tender violets!—M. D. TOLMAN.
The ferns bend low, the grasses lean,
As doing homage to a queen,
The fairest queens that ever smiled
On cavalier, or king beguiled:
Oh, sweet and tender violets!
—M. D. TOLMAN.
I go to the river there belowWhere in bunches the violets grow,And sun and shadow meet.—HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
I go to the river there belowWhere in bunches the violets grow,And sun and shadow meet.—HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
I go to the river there below
Where in bunches the violets grow,
And sun and shadow meet.
—HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
BeneathPeep the blue violets out of black loam.—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
BeneathPeep the blue violets out of black loam.—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Beneath
Peep the blue violets out of black loam.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
The violet varies from the lily as farAs oak from elm.—ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
The violet varies from the lily as farAs oak from elm.—ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
The violet varies from the lily as far
As oak from elm.
—ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
Lover of each gracious thingWhich makes glad the summer-tide,From the daisies clusteringAnd the violets, purple-eyed,To those shy and hidden bloomsWhich in forest coverts stay.—ANONYMOUS.
Lover of each gracious thingWhich makes glad the summer-tide,From the daisies clusteringAnd the violets, purple-eyed,To those shy and hidden bloomsWhich in forest coverts stay.—ANONYMOUS.
Lover of each gracious thing
Which makes glad the summer-tide,
From the daisies clustering
And the violets, purple-eyed,
To those shy and hidden blooms
Which in forest coverts stay.
—ANONYMOUS.
I thread the rustling ranks, that hideTheir misty violet treasure.—BAYARD TAYLOR.
I thread the rustling ranks, that hideTheir misty violet treasure.—BAYARD TAYLOR.
I thread the rustling ranks, that hide
Their misty violet treasure.
—BAYARD TAYLOR.
But when the green world buds to blossoming,Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth and hope:Or if a later, sadder love be born,Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,But give itself.—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
But when the green world buds to blossoming,Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth and hope:Or if a later, sadder love be born,Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,But give itself.—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
But when the green world buds to blossoming,
Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth and hope:
Or if a later, sadder love be born,
Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
But give itself.
—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
And now, when summer south-winds blowAnd brier and harebell bloom again,I tread the pleasant paths we trod,I see the violet-sprinkled sodWhereon she leaned.—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
And now, when summer south-winds blowAnd brier and harebell bloom again,I tread the pleasant paths we trod,I see the violet-sprinkled sodWhereon she leaned.—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
And now, when summer south-winds blow
And brier and harebell bloom again,
I tread the pleasant paths we trod,
I see the violet-sprinkled sod
Whereon she leaned.
—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Sisters, ere the moon is set,Twine the white, white violet,While the dews are on it yet,With the myriad-starrèd mignonette.—FORCEYTHE WILSON.
Sisters, ere the moon is set,Twine the white, white violet,While the dews are on it yet,With the myriad-starrèd mignonette.—FORCEYTHE WILSON.
Sisters, ere the moon is set,
Twine the white, white violet,
While the dews are on it yet,
With the myriad-starrèd mignonette.
—FORCEYTHE WILSON.
Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rareThe summer to its rose may bring;Far sweeter to the wooing airThe hidden violet of the spring.—BAYARD TAYLOR.
Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rareThe summer to its rose may bring;Far sweeter to the wooing airThe hidden violet of the spring.—BAYARD TAYLOR.
Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare
The summer to its rose may bring;
Far sweeter to the wooing air
The hidden violet of the spring.
—BAYARD TAYLOR.
And near the snow-drop’s tender white and green,The violet in its screen.—HENRY TIMROD.
And near the snow-drop’s tender white and green,The violet in its screen.—HENRY TIMROD.
And near the snow-drop’s tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.
—HENRY TIMROD.
Pale marguerites, that swayed with dainty graceTo every breeze, the violet’s sweet, shy face,And heart’sease, wonder-eyed.—J. TORREY CAPEN.
Pale marguerites, that swayed with dainty graceTo every breeze, the violet’s sweet, shy face,And heart’sease, wonder-eyed.—J. TORREY CAPEN.
Pale marguerites, that swayed with dainty grace
To every breeze, the violet’s sweet, shy face,
And heart’sease, wonder-eyed.
—J. TORREY CAPEN.
Oh, those gardens dear and far,Where the wild wind-fairies are!Though we see not, we can hearkenTo them when the spring skies darken,Singing clearly, singing purely,Songs of far-off Elfland surely,And they pluck the wild wind posies,Lilies, violets and roses.—PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
Oh, those gardens dear and far,Where the wild wind-fairies are!Though we see not, we can hearkenTo them when the spring skies darken,Singing clearly, singing purely,Songs of far-off Elfland surely,And they pluck the wild wind posies,Lilies, violets and roses.—PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
Oh, those gardens dear and far,
Where the wild wind-fairies are!
Though we see not, we can hearken
To them when the spring skies darken,
Singing clearly, singing purely,
Songs of far-off Elfland surely,
And they pluck the wild wind posies,
Lilies, violets and roses.
—PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
Miss Violet displays no hood,Nor garbs herself as violets should—She sports a witching hat;Nor is she found in dim retreat,But often on the crowded streetHer boots go pit-a-pat.—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
Miss Violet displays no hood,Nor garbs herself as violets should—She sports a witching hat;Nor is she found in dim retreat,But often on the crowded streetHer boots go pit-a-pat.—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
Miss Violet displays no hood,
Nor garbs herself as violets should—
She sports a witching hat;
Nor is she found in dim retreat,
But often on the crowded street
Her boots go pit-a-pat.
—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
And give my simple thought the skill to knowWhat interchanging hints between us pass;What sense of joy it is that thrills me soWhene’er I see blue violets in the grass.—ISAAC B. CHOATE.
And give my simple thought the skill to knowWhat interchanging hints between us pass;What sense of joy it is that thrills me soWhene’er I see blue violets in the grass.—ISAAC B. CHOATE.
And give my simple thought the skill to know
What interchanging hints between us pass;
What sense of joy it is that thrills me so
Whene’er I see blue violets in the grass.
—ISAAC B. CHOATE.
Here eglantine embalmed the air,Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;The primrose pale, and violet flower,Found in each cliff a narrow bower.—SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Here eglantine embalmed the air,Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;The primrose pale, and violet flower,Found in each cliff a narrow bower.—SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Here eglantine embalmed the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale, and violet flower,
Found in each cliff a narrow bower.
—SIR WALTER SCOTT.
It trembled off the keys,—a parting kissSo sweet,—the angel slept upon his swordAs through the gate of Paradise we swept,—Partakers of creation’s primal bliss!—The air was heavy with the breathOf violets and love till death—Forgetful of eternal banishment,Deep down the dusk of passion-haunted ways,Lost in the dreaming alchemies of tone,Drenched in the dew no other wings frequent,—Our thirsting hearts drank in the breathOf violets and love in death—There was no world, no flesh, no boundary line—Spirit to spirit—chord and dissonance,Beyond the jealousy of space or timeHis life in one low cry broke over mine!—The waking angel drew a shuddering breathOf violets and love and death.—MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON.
It trembled off the keys,—a parting kissSo sweet,—the angel slept upon his swordAs through the gate of Paradise we swept,—Partakers of creation’s primal bliss!—The air was heavy with the breathOf violets and love till death—Forgetful of eternal banishment,Deep down the dusk of passion-haunted ways,Lost in the dreaming alchemies of tone,Drenched in the dew no other wings frequent,—Our thirsting hearts drank in the breathOf violets and love in death—There was no world, no flesh, no boundary line—Spirit to spirit—chord and dissonance,Beyond the jealousy of space or timeHis life in one low cry broke over mine!—The waking angel drew a shuddering breathOf violets and love and death.—MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON.
It trembled off the keys,—a parting kiss
So sweet,—the angel slept upon his sword
As through the gate of Paradise we swept,—
Partakers of creation’s primal bliss!
—The air was heavy with the breath
Of violets and love till death—
Forgetful of eternal banishment,
Deep down the dusk of passion-haunted ways,
Lost in the dreaming alchemies of tone,
Drenched in the dew no other wings frequent,
—Our thirsting hearts drank in the breath
Of violets and love in death—
There was no world, no flesh, no boundary line—
Spirit to spirit—chord and dissonance,
Beyond the jealousy of space or time
His life in one low cry broke over mine!
—The waking angel drew a shuddering breath
Of violets and love and death.
—MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON.
Bay leaves betweenAnd primroses greenEmbellish the sweet violet.—EDMUND SPENSER.
Bay leaves betweenAnd primroses greenEmbellish the sweet violet.—EDMUND SPENSER.
Bay leaves between
And primroses green
Embellish the sweet violet.
—EDMUND SPENSER.
Better to smell the violet coolThan sip the glowing wine;Better to hark a hidden brookThan watch a diamond shine.—GEORGE MACDONALD.
Better to smell the violet coolThan sip the glowing wine;Better to hark a hidden brookThan watch a diamond shine.—GEORGE MACDONALD.
Better to smell the violet cool
Than sip the glowing wine;
Better to hark a hidden brook
Than watch a diamond shine.
—GEORGE MACDONALD.
Upon the water’s velvet edgeThe purple blossoms breathe delight,Close nestled to the grassy sedgeAs sweet as dawn, as dark as night.O brook and branches, far away,My heart keeps time with you today!“The violets—the violets!”—FRANCES L. MACE.
Upon the water’s velvet edgeThe purple blossoms breathe delight,Close nestled to the grassy sedgeAs sweet as dawn, as dark as night.O brook and branches, far away,My heart keeps time with you today!“The violets—the violets!”—FRANCES L. MACE.
Upon the water’s velvet edge
The purple blossoms breathe delight,
Close nestled to the grassy sedge
As sweet as dawn, as dark as night.
O brook and branches, far away,
My heart keeps time with you today!
“The violets—the violets!”
—FRANCES L. MACE.
Call the crowfoot and the crocus,Call the pale anemone,Call the violet and the daisy,Clothed with careful modesty.—PHŒBE CARY.
Call the crowfoot and the crocus,Call the pale anemone,Call the violet and the daisy,Clothed with careful modesty.—PHŒBE CARY.
Call the crowfoot and the crocus,
Call the pale anemone,
Call the violet and the daisy,
Clothed with careful modesty.
—PHŒBE CARY.
The mosses are wetUnder chestnut and thornWith blossoms new-bornOf dim violet.—JOHN A. SYMONDS.
The mosses are wetUnder chestnut and thornWith blossoms new-bornOf dim violet.—JOHN A. SYMONDS.
The mosses are wet
Under chestnut and thorn
With blossoms new-born
Of dim violet.
—JOHN A. SYMONDS.
Give me only a bud from the treesOr a blade of grass in morning dew,Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,I could look on it forever.—SYDNEY DOBELL.
Give me only a bud from the treesOr a blade of grass in morning dew,Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,I could look on it forever.—SYDNEY DOBELL.
Give me only a bud from the trees
Or a blade of grass in morning dew,
Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,
I could look on it forever.
—SYDNEY DOBELL.
How could I forgetTo beg of thee, dear violet!Some of thy modesty,That blossoms here as well, unseen,As if before the world thou’dst been,O give to strengthen me.—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
How could I forgetTo beg of thee, dear violet!Some of thy modesty,That blossoms here as well, unseen,As if before the world thou’dst been,O give to strengthen me.—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
How could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,
That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou’dst been,
O give to strengthen me.
—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
When daisies pied, and violets blue,And lady-smocks all silver white,And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,Do paint the meadows with delight.—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
When daisies pied, and violets blue,And lady-smocks all silver white,And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,Do paint the meadows with delight.—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight.
—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
An emerald robe o’er all the fields is drawn;Here are cowslips, there the violets appear;The rill’s low laughter, children’s joyous words,The ploughman’s chorus, with the song of birds,In mingled cadences, are heard afar and near.—JOSIAH RICE TAYLOR.
An emerald robe o’er all the fields is drawn;Here are cowslips, there the violets appear;The rill’s low laughter, children’s joyous words,The ploughman’s chorus, with the song of birds,In mingled cadences, are heard afar and near.—JOSIAH RICE TAYLOR.
An emerald robe o’er all the fields is drawn;
Here are cowslips, there the violets appear;
The rill’s low laughter, children’s joyous words,
The ploughman’s chorus, with the song of birds,
In mingled cadences, are heard afar and near.
—JOSIAH RICE TAYLOR.
All the world is blooming, wherefore sigh?Violets amid the grasses lie,And the wild bees with their girdles brightClimb up dazzling shafts of dazzling light;And on cowslips fall, in golden play,Shadows of the swallows on their way.—MRS. WHITON-STONE.
All the world is blooming, wherefore sigh?Violets amid the grasses lie,And the wild bees with their girdles brightClimb up dazzling shafts of dazzling light;And on cowslips fall, in golden play,Shadows of the swallows on their way.—MRS. WHITON-STONE.
All the world is blooming, wherefore sigh?
Violets amid the grasses lie,
And the wild bees with their girdles bright
Climb up dazzling shafts of dazzling light;
And on cowslips fall, in golden play,
Shadows of the swallows on their way.
—MRS. WHITON-STONE.
One loves a baby face, with violets there,Violets instead of laurel in the hair,As these were all the little locks could bear.—ROBERT BROWNING.
One loves a baby face, with violets there,Violets instead of laurel in the hair,As these were all the little locks could bear.—ROBERT BROWNING.
One loves a baby face, with violets there,
Violets instead of laurel in the hair,
As these were all the little locks could bear.
—ROBERT BROWNING.
The sea is growing summer blue,But fairer, sweeter than the smiling sky,Or bashful violet with tender eye,Is she whose love for me will never die,—I love you, darling, only you!—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
The sea is growing summer blue,But fairer, sweeter than the smiling sky,Or bashful violet with tender eye,Is she whose love for me will never die,—I love you, darling, only you!—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
The sea is growing summer blue,
But fairer, sweeter than the smiling sky,
Or bashful violet with tender eye,
Is she whose love for me will never die,—
I love you, darling, only you!
—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
“Use! Use! Use!”I cried impatiently;—“nothing but use!As if God never made a violet,Or hung a harebell!”—J. G. HOLLAND.
“Use! Use! Use!”I cried impatiently;—“nothing but use!As if God never made a violet,Or hung a harebell!”—J. G. HOLLAND.
“Use! Use! Use!”
I cried impatiently;—“nothing but use!
As if God never made a violet,
Or hung a harebell!”
—J. G. HOLLAND.
The pride of every grove I chose,The violet sweet and lily fair,The dappled pink and blushing rose,To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.—MATTHEW PRIOR.
The pride of every grove I chose,The violet sweet and lily fair,The dappled pink and blushing rose,To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.—MATTHEW PRIOR.
The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.
—MATTHEW PRIOR.
’Twas a childIn whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed,Something to waken wonder. Never skyIn noontide depth, or softly breaking dawn—Never the dew in new-born violet’s cup,Lay so entranced in purity.—NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
’Twas a childIn whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed,Something to waken wonder. Never skyIn noontide depth, or softly breaking dawn—Never the dew in new-born violet’s cup,Lay so entranced in purity.—NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
’Twas a child
In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed,
Something to waken wonder. Never sky
In noontide depth, or softly breaking dawn—
Never the dew in new-born violet’s cup,
Lay so entranced in purity.
—NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Violets, faint with love’s perfume,Lie hid in tall green grasses.—MARY E. BLAKE.
Violets, faint with love’s perfume,Lie hid in tall green grasses.—MARY E. BLAKE.
Violets, faint with love’s perfume,
Lie hid in tall green grasses.
—MARY E. BLAKE.
The violet, she is faint with heat—The lily is all forlorn;My love, arise, with thy dewy eyes,Arise, and be their morn!—ALICE CARY.
The violet, she is faint with heat—The lily is all forlorn;My love, arise, with thy dewy eyes,Arise, and be their morn!—ALICE CARY.
The violet, she is faint with heat—
The lily is all forlorn;
My love, arise, with thy dewy eyes,
Arise, and be their morn!
—ALICE CARY.
Grow greener, grass, where the river flows—Her feet have pressed you;Blow fresher, violet! lily! rose!Her eyes have blessed you.—CHARLES MACKAY.
Grow greener, grass, where the river flows—Her feet have pressed you;Blow fresher, violet! lily! rose!Her eyes have blessed you.—CHARLES MACKAY.
Grow greener, grass, where the river flows—
Her feet have pressed you;
Blow fresher, violet! lily! rose!
Her eyes have blessed you.
—CHARLES MACKAY.
Violets make the airs that passTelltales of their fragrant slope.—BAYARD TAYLOR.
Violets make the airs that passTelltales of their fragrant slope.—BAYARD TAYLOR.
Violets make the airs that pass
Telltales of their fragrant slope.
—BAYARD TAYLOR.
Sich a rainy seasonA-comin’ by-an’-by;But Sun will play de hide-an’-seekYander in the sky.Lily’ll look so lonesome—Violet hide his eye;But de skies will do yo’ weepin’,So, honey, don’t you cry!W’en der rain is over,Violet dress in blue;Red rose say: “I sweet terday—An’ here’s a kiss fer you!”—FRANK L. STANTON.
Sich a rainy seasonA-comin’ by-an’-by;But Sun will play de hide-an’-seekYander in the sky.
Sich a rainy season
A-comin’ by-an’-by;
But Sun will play de hide-an’-seek
Yander in the sky.
Lily’ll look so lonesome—Violet hide his eye;But de skies will do yo’ weepin’,So, honey, don’t you cry!
Lily’ll look so lonesome—
Violet hide his eye;
But de skies will do yo’ weepin’,
So, honey, don’t you cry!
W’en der rain is over,Violet dress in blue;Red rose say: “I sweet terday—An’ here’s a kiss fer you!”—FRANK L. STANTON.
W’en der rain is over,
Violet dress in blue;
Red rose say: “I sweet terday—
An’ here’s a kiss fer you!”
—FRANK L. STANTON.
Shadows, like the violets tangled,Like the soft light, softly mingled.—ALICE CARY.
Shadows, like the violets tangled,Like the soft light, softly mingled.—ALICE CARY.
Shadows, like the violets tangled,
Like the soft light, softly mingled.
—ALICE CARY.
When violets pranked the turf with blue,And morning filled their cups with dew.—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
When violets pranked the turf with blue,And morning filled their cups with dew.—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
When violets pranked the turf with blue,
And morning filled their cups with dew.
—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Came one by one the seasons, meetly drest.······First Spring—upon whose head a wreath was setOf wind-flowers and the yellow violet—Advanced. Then Summer led his loveliestOf months, one ever to the minstrel dear(Her sweet eyes dewy wet),June, and her sisters, whose brown hands entwineThe brier-rose and the bee-haunted columbine.—EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
Came one by one the seasons, meetly drest.······First Spring—upon whose head a wreath was setOf wind-flowers and the yellow violet—Advanced. Then Summer led his loveliestOf months, one ever to the minstrel dear(Her sweet eyes dewy wet),June, and her sisters, whose brown hands entwineThe brier-rose and the bee-haunted columbine.—EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
Came one by one the seasons, meetly drest.
······
First Spring—upon whose head a wreath was set
Of wind-flowers and the yellow violet—
Advanced. Then Summer led his loveliest
Of months, one ever to the minstrel dear
(Her sweet eyes dewy wet),
June, and her sisters, whose brown hands entwine
The brier-rose and the bee-haunted columbine.
—EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
Oh, not more sweet the tearsOf the dewy eve on the violet shed,Than the dews of age on the hoary headWhen it enters the eve of years.—ANONYMOUS.
Oh, not more sweet the tearsOf the dewy eve on the violet shed,Than the dews of age on the hoary headWhen it enters the eve of years.—ANONYMOUS.
Oh, not more sweet the tears
Of the dewy eve on the violet shed,
Than the dews of age on the hoary head
When it enters the eve of years.
—ANONYMOUS.
’Twas violet time when he and sheWent roaming the meadows wide and free.A happy lad and lass were they,Their hearts, their hopes, their voices gay,—She seventeen, he twenty-three.The skies were calm as a sleeping sea,And the hills and streams and the mossy leaA part of the wooing seemed to be;’Twas violet time.Years fled, and weak and old grew he;His form was bent like a snow-bowed tree,His hair was white and hers was gray,But their souls were young as a morn in May,And in their souls—sweet mystery!—’Twas violet time!—ERNEST WARBURTON SHURTLEFF.
’Twas violet time when he and sheWent roaming the meadows wide and free.A happy lad and lass were they,Their hearts, their hopes, their voices gay,—She seventeen, he twenty-three.
’Twas violet time when he and she
Went roaming the meadows wide and free.
A happy lad and lass were they,
Their hearts, their hopes, their voices gay,—
She seventeen, he twenty-three.
The skies were calm as a sleeping sea,And the hills and streams and the mossy leaA part of the wooing seemed to be;’Twas violet time.
The skies were calm as a sleeping sea,
And the hills and streams and the mossy lea
A part of the wooing seemed to be;
’Twas violet time.
Years fled, and weak and old grew he;His form was bent like a snow-bowed tree,His hair was white and hers was gray,But their souls were young as a morn in May,And in their souls—sweet mystery!—’Twas violet time!—ERNEST WARBURTON SHURTLEFF.
Years fled, and weak and old grew he;
His form was bent like a snow-bowed tree,
His hair was white and hers was gray,
But their souls were young as a morn in May,
And in their souls—sweet mystery!—
’Twas violet time!
—ERNEST WARBURTON SHURTLEFF.
A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky,She lived.—WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky,She lived.—WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye—
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky,
She lived.
—WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
O playmate in the golden time!Our mossy seat is green,Its fringing violets blossom yet;The old trees o’er it lean.—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
O playmate in the golden time!Our mossy seat is green,Its fringing violets blossom yet;The old trees o’er it lean.—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green,
Its fringing violets blossom yet;
The old trees o’er it lean.
—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
The brown pine-needles at our feetSpread forth until the green is met,To mingle all their perfume sweetWith trillium and with violet.—WILLIAM McLELLAN.
The brown pine-needles at our feetSpread forth until the green is met,To mingle all their perfume sweetWith trillium and with violet.—WILLIAM McLELLAN.
The brown pine-needles at our feet
Spread forth until the green is met,
To mingle all their perfume sweet
With trillium and with violet.
—WILLIAM McLELLAN.
Ungarlanded still stand the fairWhite ladyes of the wood;Yet, purple-robed, the violetPeeps from her gray-green hood.—ANONYMOUS.
Ungarlanded still stand the fairWhite ladyes of the wood;Yet, purple-robed, the violetPeeps from her gray-green hood.—ANONYMOUS.
Ungarlanded still stand the fair
White ladyes of the wood;
Yet, purple-robed, the violet
Peeps from her gray-green hood.
—ANONYMOUS.
Passing along through the field of wheatBy the hedge where in spring the violets glow,And the bluebells blossom around our feet.—CHARLES SAYLE.
Passing along through the field of wheatBy the hedge where in spring the violets glow,And the bluebells blossom around our feet.—CHARLES SAYLE.
Passing along through the field of wheat
By the hedge where in spring the violets glow,
And the bluebells blossom around our feet.
—CHARLES SAYLE.
Lady violet, blooming meeklyBy the brooklet free,Bending low thy gentle foreheadAll his grace to see;Turn thee from the wooing water—Whisper soft, I pray,For the wind might hear my secret—Does he love me? Say!—N. C. KETCHUM.
Lady violet, blooming meeklyBy the brooklet free,Bending low thy gentle foreheadAll his grace to see;Turn thee from the wooing water—Whisper soft, I pray,For the wind might hear my secret—Does he love me? Say!—N. C. KETCHUM.
Lady violet, blooming meekly
By the brooklet free,
Bending low thy gentle forehead
All his grace to see;
Turn thee from the wooing water—
Whisper soft, I pray,
For the wind might hear my secret—
Does he love me? Say!
—N. C. KETCHUM.
Violets in the hazel copse,Bluebells in the dingle;Birds in all the green tree-topsJoyous songs commingle.—MARY C. GILLINGTON.
Violets in the hazel copse,Bluebells in the dingle;Birds in all the green tree-topsJoyous songs commingle.—MARY C. GILLINGTON.
Violets in the hazel copse,
Bluebells in the dingle;
Birds in all the green tree-tops
Joyous songs commingle.
—MARY C. GILLINGTON.
In her face a garden lies:Violets are her azure eyes;Just below them there reposeBlushing cheeks of velvet rose;’Twixt the roses, scorning drouth,Tulips of her tempting mouth.In this garden alley mayOnly one, the chosen, stray.Reveling in their radiant hues,Tasting of their precious dews,Rich delights he ne’er forgets—Tulips, roses, violets.—GEORGE BIRDSEYE.
In her face a garden lies:Violets are her azure eyes;Just below them there reposeBlushing cheeks of velvet rose;’Twixt the roses, scorning drouth,Tulips of her tempting mouth.In this garden alley mayOnly one, the chosen, stray.Reveling in their radiant hues,Tasting of their precious dews,Rich delights he ne’er forgets—Tulips, roses, violets.—GEORGE BIRDSEYE.
In her face a garden lies:
Violets are her azure eyes;
Just below them there repose
Blushing cheeks of velvet rose;
’Twixt the roses, scorning drouth,
Tulips of her tempting mouth.
In this garden alley may
Only one, the chosen, stray.
Reveling in their radiant hues,
Tasting of their precious dews,
Rich delights he ne’er forgets—
Tulips, roses, violets.
—GEORGE BIRDSEYE.
From over-sea,Violets, for memories,I send to thee.—WILLIAM SHARP.
From over-sea,Violets, for memories,I send to thee.—WILLIAM SHARP.
From over-sea,
Violets, for memories,
I send to thee.
—WILLIAM SHARP.
For thoughts of a sylvan home,For forest trees gemmed with dew,For sake of the Giver kind,Violets, I love you.—GRACE HIBBARD.
For thoughts of a sylvan home,For forest trees gemmed with dew,For sake of the Giver kind,Violets, I love you.—GRACE HIBBARD.
For thoughts of a sylvan home,
For forest trees gemmed with dew,
For sake of the Giver kind,
Violets, I love you.
—GRACE HIBBARD.
I sometimes dream that when at lastMy life is done with fading things,Again will blossom forth the pastTo which my memory fondest clings.That some fair star has kept for meFresh blooming still by brook and treeThe violets—the violets!—FRANCES L. MACE.
I sometimes dream that when at lastMy life is done with fading things,Again will blossom forth the pastTo which my memory fondest clings.That some fair star has kept for meFresh blooming still by brook and treeThe violets—the violets!—FRANCES L. MACE.
I sometimes dream that when at last
My life is done with fading things,
Again will blossom forth the past
To which my memory fondest clings.
That some fair star has kept for me
Fresh blooming still by brook and tree
The violets—the violets!
—FRANCES L. MACE.
When woods in early green were dressed,And from the chambers of the westThe warmer breezes, traveling out,Breathed the new scent of flowers about,My truant steps from home would stray,Upon its grassy side to play,List the brown thrasher’s vernal hymn,And crop the violet on its brim.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
When woods in early green were dressed,And from the chambers of the westThe warmer breezes, traveling out,Breathed the new scent of flowers about,My truant steps from home would stray,Upon its grassy side to play,List the brown thrasher’s vernal hymn,And crop the violet on its brim.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
When woods in early green were dressed,
And from the chambers of the west
The warmer breezes, traveling out,
Breathed the new scent of flowers about,
My truant steps from home would stray,
Upon its grassy side to play,
List the brown thrasher’s vernal hymn,
And crop the violet on its brim.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
In shadows cool and dimI rest at ease from care and cark,With pinks and violets to markMy small horizon’s rim.—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
In shadows cool and dimI rest at ease from care and cark,With pinks and violets to markMy small horizon’s rim.—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
In shadows cool and dim
I rest at ease from care and cark,
With pinks and violets to mark
My small horizon’s rim.
—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
A shadowy nook, where half afraidOf their own loveliness, some violets lieThat will not look the gold sun in the face.—OSCAR WILDE.
A shadowy nook, where half afraidOf their own loveliness, some violets lieThat will not look the gold sun in the face.—OSCAR WILDE.
A shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness, some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face.
—OSCAR WILDE.
How sweet to rest, ere dawns the summer’s heat,Where violets gaze upward to the sky!—GUNNISON.
How sweet to rest, ere dawns the summer’s heat,Where violets gaze upward to the sky!—GUNNISON.
How sweet to rest, ere dawns the summer’s heat,
Where violets gaze upward to the sky!
—GUNNISON.
Little streams have flowers a-many,Beautiful and fair as any,—Arrowhead with eye of jet,And the water-violet.—MARY HOWITT.
Little streams have flowers a-many,Beautiful and fair as any,—Arrowhead with eye of jet,And the water-violet.—MARY HOWITT.
Little streams have flowers a-many,
Beautiful and fair as any,—
Arrowhead with eye of jet,
And the water-violet.
—MARY HOWITT.
Soft-breathed winds, under yon gracious moon,Doing mild errands for mild violets.—SIDNEY LANIER.
Soft-breathed winds, under yon gracious moon,Doing mild errands for mild violets.—SIDNEY LANIER.
Soft-breathed winds, under yon gracious moon,
Doing mild errands for mild violets.
—SIDNEY LANIER.
The violets that skirt the bankBend down to thankThe laughing stream with kisses sweet.—ANONYMOUS.
The violets that skirt the bankBend down to thankThe laughing stream with kisses sweet.—ANONYMOUS.
The violets that skirt the bank
Bend down to thank
The laughing stream with kisses sweet.
—ANONYMOUS.
Poised in a sheeny mistOf the dust of bloom,Clasped to the poppy’s breast and kissed,Baptized in violet perfumeFrom foot to plume!—JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON.
Poised in a sheeny mistOf the dust of bloom,Clasped to the poppy’s breast and kissed,Baptized in violet perfumeFrom foot to plume!—JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON.
Poised in a sheeny mist
Of the dust of bloom,
Clasped to the poppy’s breast and kissed,
Baptized in violet perfume
From foot to plume!
—JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON.
CHAPTER NINE
Modest violet, maiden violet,Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes?—ALICE CARY.
Modest violet, maiden violet,Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes?—ALICE CARY.
Modest violet, maiden violet,
Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes?
—ALICE CARY.
These fall-time violets seemLike a dream within a dream.—ANONYMOUS.
These fall-time violets seemLike a dream within a dream.—ANONYMOUS.
These fall-time violets seem
Like a dream within a dream.
—ANONYMOUS.
O that I were listening under the olives!So should I hear behind in the woodlandThe peasants talking. Either a woman,A wrinkled grandame, stands in the sunshine,Stirs the brown soil in an acre of violets—Large odorous violets—and answers slowlyA child’s swift babble; or else at noonThe laborers come.—MARGARET L. WOODS.
O that I were listening under the olives!So should I hear behind in the woodlandThe peasants talking. Either a woman,A wrinkled grandame, stands in the sunshine,Stirs the brown soil in an acre of violets—Large odorous violets—and answers slowlyA child’s swift babble; or else at noonThe laborers come.—MARGARET L. WOODS.
O that I were listening under the olives!
So should I hear behind in the woodland
The peasants talking. Either a woman,
A wrinkled grandame, stands in the sunshine,
Stirs the brown soil in an acre of violets—
Large odorous violets—and answers slowly
A child’s swift babble; or else at noon
The laborers come.
—MARGARET L. WOODS.
The violets meet and disport themselves,Under the trees, by tens and twelves.—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.
The violets meet and disport themselves,Under the trees, by tens and twelves.—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.
The violets meet and disport themselves,
Under the trees, by tens and twelves.
—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.
Shall I tell you what wonderful fancyBuilt up this palace for me?It was only a little white violetI found at the root of a tree.—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
Shall I tell you what wonderful fancyBuilt up this palace for me?It was only a little white violetI found at the root of a tree.—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
Shall I tell you what wonderful fancy
Built up this palace for me?
It was only a little white violet
I found at the root of a tree.
—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
From the field by the river’s brink,Where violets hid his nest,Soars high with a canticle of the blestThe jubilant bobolink.—FRANCES L. MACE.
From the field by the river’s brink,Where violets hid his nest,Soars high with a canticle of the blestThe jubilant bobolink.—FRANCES L. MACE.
From the field by the river’s brink,
Where violets hid his nest,
Soars high with a canticle of the blest
The jubilant bobolink.
—FRANCES L. MACE.
Open wide the windows—The green hills are in sight,Winds are whispering, “Violets!”And—there’s a daisy white,And the great sun says, “Good morning!”And the valleys sing delight.—ANONYMOUS.
Open wide the windows—The green hills are in sight,Winds are whispering, “Violets!”And—there’s a daisy white,And the great sun says, “Good morning!”And the valleys sing delight.—ANONYMOUS.
Open wide the windows—
The green hills are in sight,
Winds are whispering, “Violets!”
And—there’s a daisy white,
And the great sun says, “Good morning!”
And the valleys sing delight.
—ANONYMOUS.
Violets, faint with love’s perfume,Lie hid in tall green grasses.—MARY E. BLAKE.
Violets, faint with love’s perfume,Lie hid in tall green grasses.—MARY E. BLAKE.
Violets, faint with love’s perfume,
Lie hid in tall green grasses.
—MARY E. BLAKE.
The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near,And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae clear,The violets for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear.—ROBERT BURNS.
The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near,And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae clear,The violets for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear.—ROBERT BURNS.
The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near,
And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae clear,
The violets for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear.
—ROBERT BURNS.
The bright-eyed daisy, the violet sweet,The blushing poppy that nods and tremblesIn its scarlet hood among the wheat.—WILLIAM W. STORY.
The bright-eyed daisy, the violet sweet,The blushing poppy that nods and tremblesIn its scarlet hood among the wheat.—WILLIAM W. STORY.
The bright-eyed daisy, the violet sweet,
The blushing poppy that nods and trembles
In its scarlet hood among the wheat.
—WILLIAM W. STORY.
In meadows bright with violetsAnd Spring’s fair children of the sun.—TRIPP.
In meadows bright with violetsAnd Spring’s fair children of the sun.—TRIPP.
In meadows bright with violets
And Spring’s fair children of the sun.
—TRIPP.
Why do you shiver so,Violet sweet?Soft is the meadow-grassUnder my feet.Wrapped in your hood of green,Violet, whyPeep from your earth-doorSo silent and shy?—LUCY LARCOM.
Why do you shiver so,Violet sweet?Soft is the meadow-grassUnder my feet.Wrapped in your hood of green,Violet, whyPeep from your earth-doorSo silent and shy?—LUCY LARCOM.
Why do you shiver so,
Violet sweet?
Soft is the meadow-grass
Under my feet.
Wrapped in your hood of green,
Violet, why
Peep from your earth-door
So silent and shy?
—LUCY LARCOM.
O day of days! Thy memoryWill never fade, nor pass;Patches of lowly violetsWere clouding all the grass.—ALICE CARY.
O day of days! Thy memoryWill never fade, nor pass;Patches of lowly violetsWere clouding all the grass.—ALICE CARY.
O day of days! Thy memory
Will never fade, nor pass;
Patches of lowly violets
Were clouding all the grass.
—ALICE CARY.
Go, modest little violets, and lie upon her breast;Your eyes will tell her something—perhaps she’ll guess the rest!—CHARLES HENRY WEBB.
Go, modest little violets, and lie upon her breast;Your eyes will tell her something—perhaps she’ll guess the rest!—CHARLES HENRY WEBB.
Go, modest little violets, and lie upon her breast;
Your eyes will tell her something—perhaps she’ll guess the rest!
—CHARLES HENRY WEBB.
How gentle is the soul that looketh outFrom violets sweet through dim, blue, tearful eyes,That turns a pleading face to look aboutAnd watch the sun’s course through the smiling skies!—ISAAC BASSETT CHOATE.
How gentle is the soul that looketh outFrom violets sweet through dim, blue, tearful eyes,That turns a pleading face to look aboutAnd watch the sun’s course through the smiling skies!—ISAAC BASSETT CHOATE.
How gentle is the soul that looketh out
From violets sweet through dim, blue, tearful eyes,
That turns a pleading face to look about
And watch the sun’s course through the smiling skies!
—ISAAC BASSETT CHOATE.
Who beheld it? O, the rare surpriseWhen, like souls upspringing from the sod,Violets unclosed their still blue eyesIn the green fair world of God!—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Who beheld it? O, the rare surpriseWhen, like souls upspringing from the sod,Violets unclosed their still blue eyesIn the green fair world of God!—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Who beheld it? O, the rare surprise
When, like souls upspringing from the sod,
Violets unclosed their still blue eyes
In the green fair world of God!
—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn,Blushing into life new-born!Lend me violets for my hair,And thy russet robe to wear!—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn,Blushing into life new-born!Lend me violets for my hair,And thy russet robe to wear!—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn,
Blushing into life new-born!
Lend me violets for my hair,
And thy russet robe to wear!
—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
The south wind is like a gentle friendParting the hair so softly on my brow.I know it has been trifling with the roseAnd stooping to the violet.—NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
The south wind is like a gentle friendParting the hair so softly on my brow.I know it has been trifling with the roseAnd stooping to the violet.—NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
The south wind is like a gentle friend
Parting the hair so softly on my brow.
I know it has been trifling with the rose
And stooping to the violet.
—NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
The flowers we know, they move us so,Almost to weep we’re fain;Who heard us say, that fairest dayLast spring, “They’re come again,Sweet violets”?—EMILY S. OAKEY.
The flowers we know, they move us so,Almost to weep we’re fain;Who heard us say, that fairest dayLast spring, “They’re come again,Sweet violets”?—EMILY S. OAKEY.
The flowers we know, they move us so,
Almost to weep we’re fain;
Who heard us say, that fairest day
Last spring, “They’re come again,
Sweet violets”?
—EMILY S. OAKEY.
I can hear these violets’ chorusTo the sky’s benediction above;And we all together are lyingOn the bosom of Infinite Love.—WILLIAM C. GANNETT.
I can hear these violets’ chorusTo the sky’s benediction above;And we all together are lyingOn the bosom of Infinite Love.—WILLIAM C. GANNETT.
I can hear these violets’ chorus
To the sky’s benediction above;
And we all together are lying
On the bosom of Infinite Love.
—WILLIAM C. GANNETT.
The modest, lowly violetIn leaves of tender green is set,So rich she cannot hide from view,But covers all the bank with blue.—DORA READ GOODALE.
The modest, lowly violetIn leaves of tender green is set,So rich she cannot hide from view,But covers all the bank with blue.—DORA READ GOODALE.
The modest, lowly violet
In leaves of tender green is set,
So rich she cannot hide from view,
But covers all the bank with blue.
—DORA READ GOODALE.
Here blows the warm red clover,There peeps the violet blue;O happy little children!God made them all for you.—CELIA THAXTER.
Here blows the warm red clover,There peeps the violet blue;O happy little children!God made them all for you.—CELIA THAXTER.
Here blows the warm red clover,
There peeps the violet blue;
O happy little children!
God made them all for you.
—CELIA THAXTER.
I pressed them to my lips for you,Ah me! I know your heart forgetsIn knowing not, or caring thatI pick thee violets.—MARY FREDERICK FAXON.
I pressed them to my lips for you,Ah me! I know your heart forgetsIn knowing not, or caring thatI pick thee violets.—MARY FREDERICK FAXON.
I pressed them to my lips for you,
Ah me! I know your heart forgets
In knowing not, or caring that
I pick thee violets.
—MARY FREDERICK FAXON.
When eve had come, and thicker grewThe shadows all the garden through,Beside the rose-embowered gate,Her laughter stilled. To speak, or wait—Oh, beating heart, what should I do!Long lashes hid her eyes of blue,Twin violets befringed with dew.—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
When eve had come, and thicker grewThe shadows all the garden through,Beside the rose-embowered gate,Her laughter stilled. To speak, or wait—Oh, beating heart, what should I do!Long lashes hid her eyes of blue,Twin violets befringed with dew.—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
When eve had come, and thicker grew
The shadows all the garden through,
Beside the rose-embowered gate,
Her laughter stilled. To speak, or wait—
Oh, beating heart, what should I do!
Long lashes hid her eyes of blue,
Twin violets befringed with dew.
—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
I wonder if the violet feltYour presence when you gently knelt,And breathed for you its sweetest airBecause you loved yet left it there.—HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
I wonder if the violet feltYour presence when you gently knelt,And breathed for you its sweetest airBecause you loved yet left it there.—HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
I wonder if the violet felt
Your presence when you gently knelt,
And breathed for you its sweetest air
Because you loved yet left it there.
—HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
O, were I yon violet,On which she is walking!Or were I yon small bird,To which she is talking!—ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
O, were I yon violet,On which she is walking!Or were I yon small bird,To which she is talking!—ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
O, were I yon violet,
On which she is walking!
Or were I yon small bird,
To which she is talking!
—ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
I asked a nodding violet, whyIt sadly hung its head.It told me Cynthia late past by,Too soon from it that fled.—MICHAEL DRAYTON.
I asked a nodding violet, whyIt sadly hung its head.It told me Cynthia late past by,Too soon from it that fled.—MICHAEL DRAYTON.
I asked a nodding violet, why
It sadly hung its head.
It told me Cynthia late past by,
Too soon from it that fled.
—MICHAEL DRAYTON.
Compassed all about with roses sweetAnd dainty violets from head to feet.—EDMUND SPENSER.
Compassed all about with roses sweetAnd dainty violets from head to feet.—EDMUND SPENSER.
Compassed all about with roses sweet
And dainty violets from head to feet.
—EDMUND SPENSER.
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,Sorrow calls no time that’s gone:Violets plucked, the sweetest rainMakes not fresh nor grow again.—SAMUEL FLETCHER.
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,Sorrow calls no time that’s gone:Violets plucked, the sweetest rainMakes not fresh nor grow again.—SAMUEL FLETCHER.
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that’s gone:
Violets plucked, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again.
—SAMUEL FLETCHER.
On beds of violets blueAnd fresh-blown roses washed in dew.—JOHN MILTON.
On beds of violets blueAnd fresh-blown roses washed in dew.—JOHN MILTON.
On beds of violets blue
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew.
—JOHN MILTON.
Over the river there liethA city wondrous fair,And never the eye of a mortalHath looked on the glories there.The lilies grow by the rivers,Stately and fair they blow,And lift their balm to the angels,In their censer-cup of snow;And the violets blossom foreverIn the haunts where the wild birds sing,And the fern and the flowers are fragrantIn the balm of eternal spring.—EBEN E. REXFORD.
Over the river there liethA city wondrous fair,And never the eye of a mortalHath looked on the glories there.The lilies grow by the rivers,Stately and fair they blow,And lift their balm to the angels,In their censer-cup of snow;And the violets blossom foreverIn the haunts where the wild birds sing,And the fern and the flowers are fragrantIn the balm of eternal spring.—EBEN E. REXFORD.
Over the river there lieth
A city wondrous fair,
And never the eye of a mortal
Hath looked on the glories there.
The lilies grow by the rivers,
Stately and fair they blow,
And lift their balm to the angels,
In their censer-cup of snow;
And the violets blossom forever
In the haunts where the wild birds sing,
And the fern and the flowers are fragrant
In the balm of eternal spring.
—EBEN E. REXFORD.
CHAPTER TEN