The violets bloom is loveliest,Oh pretty pets, the violets.—M. D. TOLMAN.
The violets bloom is loveliest,Oh pretty pets, the violets.—M. D. TOLMAN.
The violets bloom is loveliest,
Oh pretty pets, the violets.
—M. D. TOLMAN.
Ah, the days may be sullen and sober,The nights may be stormy and cold;But for him who has eyes to behold,The violets bloom in October.—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Ah, the days may be sullen and sober,The nights may be stormy and cold;But for him who has eyes to behold,The violets bloom in October.—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Ah, the days may be sullen and sober,
The nights may be stormy and cold;
But for him who has eyes to behold,
The violets bloom in October.
—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
The soft warm hazeMakes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,The violet returns.—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
The soft warm hazeMakes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,The violet returns.—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
The soft warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns.
—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Into her dream he melted, as the roseBlendeth its odor with the violet.—JOHN KEATS.
Into her dream he melted, as the roseBlendeth its odor with the violet.—JOHN KEATS.
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odor with the violet.
—JOHN KEATS.
I think I love the violets best of all,Because of that hushed sweetness, far and faintAs star-dust through the darkness dimly sown.—MYRTLE REED.
I think I love the violets best of all,Because of that hushed sweetness, far and faintAs star-dust through the darkness dimly sown.—MYRTLE REED.
I think I love the violets best of all,
Because of that hushed sweetness, far and faint
As star-dust through the darkness dimly sown.
—MYRTLE REED.
Oh, North, or South, or East, or West,The violet’s bloom is loveliest!They come from out their coverts green,The daintiest damsels ever seen,Oh, pretty pets, the violets!—M. D. TOLMAN.
Oh, North, or South, or East, or West,The violet’s bloom is loveliest!They come from out their coverts green,The daintiest damsels ever seen,Oh, pretty pets, the violets!—M. D. TOLMAN.
Oh, North, or South, or East, or West,
The violet’s bloom is loveliest!
They come from out their coverts green,
The daintiest damsels ever seen,
Oh, pretty pets, the violets!
—M. D. TOLMAN.
To gild refinèd gold, to paint the lily,To throw a perfume on the violet,To smooth the ice, or add another hueUnto the rainbow, or with taper-lightTo seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
To gild refinèd gold, to paint the lily,To throw a perfume on the violet,To smooth the ice, or add another hueUnto the rainbow, or with taper-lightTo seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
To gild refinèd gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.
—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
The sun pierced throughAnd made a rainbow of the mist,And high, so high against the blue,I saw a mountain capped in snow;And in my hand were violets.—MARY F. FAXON.
The sun pierced throughAnd made a rainbow of the mist,And high, so high against the blue,I saw a mountain capped in snow;And in my hand were violets.—MARY F. FAXON.
The sun pierced through
And made a rainbow of the mist,
And high, so high against the blue,
I saw a mountain capped in snow;
And in my hand were violets.
—MARY F. FAXON.
Where fields of goldenrod cannot offsetOne meadow with a single violet.—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Where fields of goldenrod cannot offsetOne meadow with a single violet.—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Where fields of goldenrod cannot offset
One meadow with a single violet.
—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
If ever thou ’rt left alone,Think not that thy love is dead,But look till thou find’st the redWild rose, and say, “’Tis her cheek.”Then kiss it close; and seek—Where the clear dew never dries—Blue violets for mine eyes.—CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS.
If ever thou ’rt left alone,Think not that thy love is dead,But look till thou find’st the redWild rose, and say, “’Tis her cheek.”Then kiss it close; and seek—Where the clear dew never dries—Blue violets for mine eyes.—CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS.
If ever thou ’rt left alone,
Think not that thy love is dead,
But look till thou find’st the red
Wild rose, and say, “’Tis her cheek.”
Then kiss it close; and seek—
Where the clear dew never dries—
Blue violets for mine eyes.
—CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS.
Trust not, ye modest violets,His promises to you,Nor dare upon his fickle smileTo broaden your kerchiefs blue.—ALICE CARY.
Trust not, ye modest violets,His promises to you,Nor dare upon his fickle smileTo broaden your kerchiefs blue.—ALICE CARY.
Trust not, ye modest violets,
His promises to you,
Nor dare upon his fickle smile
To broaden your kerchiefs blue.
—ALICE CARY.
Because you mirror the skiesIn color of heaven’s own blue—For your sweet and dainty selves,Violets, I love you.—GRACE HIBBARD.
Because you mirror the skiesIn color of heaven’s own blue—For your sweet and dainty selves,Violets, I love you.—GRACE HIBBARD.
Because you mirror the skies
In color of heaven’s own blue—
For your sweet and dainty selves,
Violets, I love you.
—GRACE HIBBARD.
When violets leanO’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple drest,Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
When violets leanO’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple drest,Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
When violets lean
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
My chill-veined snow-drops,—choicer yetMy white or azure violet.—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
My chill-veined snow-drops,—choicer yetMy white or azure violet.—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
My chill-veined snow-drops,—choicer yet
My white or azure violet.
—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
There came a softness in the airAnd with a throb of longing, ere I knewA hint of violets, a thought of youFor whom it was, my heart breathed up a prayer.—CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE.
There came a softness in the airAnd with a throb of longing, ere I knewA hint of violets, a thought of youFor whom it was, my heart breathed up a prayer.—CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE.
There came a softness in the air
And with a throb of longing, ere I knew
A hint of violets, a thought of you
For whom it was, my heart breathed up a prayer.
—CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE.
The primrose turned a babbling flowerWithin its sweet recess;I blushed to see its secret bower,And turned her name to bless.The violets said the eyes were blue,I loved, and did they tell me true?—JOHN CLARE.
The primrose turned a babbling flowerWithin its sweet recess;I blushed to see its secret bower,And turned her name to bless.The violets said the eyes were blue,I loved, and did they tell me true?—JOHN CLARE.
The primrose turned a babbling flower
Within its sweet recess;
I blushed to see its secret bower,
And turned her name to bless.
The violets said the eyes were blue,
I loved, and did they tell me true?
—JOHN CLARE.
I know, I know where violets blowUpon a sweet hillside,And very bashfully they growAnd in the grasses hide—It is the fairest field, I trow,In the whole world wide.—ROBERT LOUIS MUNGER.
I know, I know where violets blowUpon a sweet hillside,And very bashfully they growAnd in the grasses hide—It is the fairest field, I trow,In the whole world wide.—ROBERT LOUIS MUNGER.
I know, I know where violets blow
Upon a sweet hillside,
And very bashfully they grow
And in the grasses hide—
It is the fairest field, I trow,
In the whole world wide.
—ROBERT LOUIS MUNGER.
O, for the life of a gipsy!A strong-armed, barefoot girl;And to have the wind for a waiting-maidTo keep my hair in curl;To bring me scent of the violet,And the red rose and the pine;And at night to spread my grassy bed—Ah! wouldn’t it be divine?—ALICE CARY.
O, for the life of a gipsy!A strong-armed, barefoot girl;And to have the wind for a waiting-maidTo keep my hair in curl;To bring me scent of the violet,And the red rose and the pine;And at night to spread my grassy bed—Ah! wouldn’t it be divine?—ALICE CARY.
O, for the life of a gipsy!
A strong-armed, barefoot girl;
And to have the wind for a waiting-maid
To keep my hair in curl;
To bring me scent of the violet,
And the red rose and the pine;
And at night to spread my grassy bed—
Ah! wouldn’t it be divine?
—ALICE CARY.
The lillie will not long endure,Nor the snow continue pure:The rose, the violet,—one daySee! both these lady-flowers decay:You must fade as well as they.—ROBERT HERRICK.
The lillie will not long endure,Nor the snow continue pure:The rose, the violet,—one daySee! both these lady-flowers decay:You must fade as well as they.—ROBERT HERRICK.
The lillie will not long endure,
Nor the snow continue pure:
The rose, the violet,—one day
See! both these lady-flowers decay:
You must fade as well as they.
—ROBERT HERRICK.
Once thy lip, to touch it only,To my soul has sent a thrillSweeter than the violet lonelyPlucked in March-time by the rill.—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.
Once thy lip, to touch it only,To my soul has sent a thrillSweeter than the violet lonelyPlucked in March-time by the rill.—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.
Once thy lip, to touch it only,
To my soul has sent a thrill
Sweeter than the violet lonely
Plucked in March-time by the rill.
—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.
Blow, violets, blow!And tell him, in your blossoming o’er and o’er,How in the places which he used to knowHis name is still breathed fondly as of yore.—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Blow, violets, blow!And tell him, in your blossoming o’er and o’er,How in the places which he used to knowHis name is still breathed fondly as of yore.—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Blow, violets, blow!
And tell him, in your blossoming o’er and o’er,
How in the places which he used to know
His name is still breathed fondly as of yore.
—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
See hyacinths and violets dim and sweet,And orange-blossoms on their dark green stems.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
See hyacinths and violets dim and sweet,And orange-blossoms on their dark green stems.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
See hyacinths and violets dim and sweet,
And orange-blossoms on their dark green stems.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
The snow-drop, and then the violet,Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,And their breath was mixed with fresh odors, sentFrom the turf, like the voice and the instrument.—PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
The snow-drop, and then the violet,Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,And their breath was mixed with fresh odors, sentFrom the turf, like the voice and the instrument.—PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
The snow-drop, and then the violet,
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
And their breath was mixed with fresh odors, sent
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
—PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
When love in the faint heart trembles,And the eyes with tears are wet,O, tell me what resemblesThee, young Regret?Violets with dewdrops drooping,Lilies o’erfull of gold,Roses in June rains stooping,That weep for the cold,Are like thee, young Regret.—GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.
When love in the faint heart trembles,And the eyes with tears are wet,O, tell me what resemblesThee, young Regret?Violets with dewdrops drooping,Lilies o’erfull of gold,Roses in June rains stooping,That weep for the cold,Are like thee, young Regret.—GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.
When love in the faint heart trembles,
And the eyes with tears are wet,
O, tell me what resembles
Thee, young Regret?
Violets with dewdrops drooping,
Lilies o’erfull of gold,
Roses in June rains stooping,
That weep for the cold,
Are like thee, young Regret.
—GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.
Over the hilltop and down in the meadow-grassHeaven, like dew, on the waking earth lies;Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets—Best of it all I find in your eyes.—WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
Over the hilltop and down in the meadow-grassHeaven, like dew, on the waking earth lies;Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets—Best of it all I find in your eyes.—WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
Over the hilltop and down in the meadow-grass
Heaven, like dew, on the waking earth lies;
Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets—
Best of it all I find in your eyes.
—WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
Far back where the April violets grewThere smiled, amid crystals of deathless dew,Our first and last Arcadia.In clear, unbroken melodyThe brook sings and the birds reply:“The violets—the violets!”—FRANCES L. MACE.
Far back where the April violets grewThere smiled, amid crystals of deathless dew,Our first and last Arcadia.
Far back where the April violets grew
There smiled, amid crystals of deathless dew,
Our first and last Arcadia.
In clear, unbroken melodyThe brook sings and the birds reply:“The violets—the violets!”—FRANCES L. MACE.
In clear, unbroken melody
The brook sings and the birds reply:
“The violets—the violets!”
—FRANCES L. MACE.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,Or purple orchis variegate the plain,Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again.—CHARLOTTE SMITH.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,Or purple orchis variegate the plain,Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again.—CHARLOTTE SMITH.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,
And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again.
—CHARLOTTE SMITH.
When October dons her crown,And the leaves are turning brown,—Breathe, sweet children, soft regretsFor the vanished violets.—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
When October dons her crown,And the leaves are turning brown,—Breathe, sweet children, soft regretsFor the vanished violets.—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
When October dons her crown,
And the leaves are turning brown,—
Breathe, sweet children, soft regrets
For the vanished violets.
—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Primrose and cowslip have I gathered here,Anemone and hiding violet,When April sang the spring song of the year.Now all is changed; the autumn day is wetWith clouds blown from the west, and vapors foldOver the dripping woods and vacant wold.—CHARLES DENYS CONWAY.
Primrose and cowslip have I gathered here,Anemone and hiding violet,When April sang the spring song of the year.Now all is changed; the autumn day is wetWith clouds blown from the west, and vapors foldOver the dripping woods and vacant wold.—CHARLES DENYS CONWAY.
Primrose and cowslip have I gathered here,
Anemone and hiding violet,
When April sang the spring song of the year.
Now all is changed; the autumn day is wet
With clouds blown from the west, and vapors fold
Over the dripping woods and vacant wold.
—CHARLES DENYS CONWAY.
She gave me a flower that she wore in her bosom,And violets, not half so blue as her eyes.—EMILY S. OAKEY.
She gave me a flower that she wore in her bosom,And violets, not half so blue as her eyes.—EMILY S. OAKEY.
She gave me a flower that she wore in her bosom,
And violets, not half so blue as her eyes.
—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Poor little Violet, calling through the chillOf this new frost which did her sister slay,In which she must herself, too, pass away!Nay, pretty Violet, be not so dismayed;Sleep only on your sisters sweet is laid.—PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
Poor little Violet, calling through the chillOf this new frost which did her sister slay,In which she must herself, too, pass away!Nay, pretty Violet, be not so dismayed;Sleep only on your sisters sweet is laid.—PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
Poor little Violet, calling through the chill
Of this new frost which did her sister slay,
In which she must herself, too, pass away!
Nay, pretty Violet, be not so dismayed;
Sleep only on your sisters sweet is laid.
—PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
As I was gathering violets in the snow,Methought how often, when the heart is low,And Nature grieves,The buds of simple faith will meekly blow’Neath frosted leaves.—A. E. HAMILTON.
As I was gathering violets in the snow,Methought how often, when the heart is low,And Nature grieves,The buds of simple faith will meekly blow’Neath frosted leaves.—A. E. HAMILTON.
As I was gathering violets in the snow,
Methought how often, when the heart is low,
And Nature grieves,
The buds of simple faith will meekly blow
’Neath frosted leaves.
—A. E. HAMILTON.
Now cometh Winter, soft snow-wraps to bring,To keep her baby violets warm till spring.—ANONYMOUS.
Now cometh Winter, soft snow-wraps to bring,To keep her baby violets warm till spring.—ANONYMOUS.
Now cometh Winter, soft snow-wraps to bring,
To keep her baby violets warm till spring.
—ANONYMOUS.
Very dark the autumn sky,Dark the clouds that hurried by;Very rough the autumn breezeShouting rudely to the trees.Listening, frightened, pale and cold,Through the withered leaves and mouldPeered a violet all in dread—“Where, oh, where is spring?” she said.Sighed the trees, “Poor little thing!She may call in vain for spring!”And the grasses whispered low,“We must never let her know.”“What’s this whispering?” roared the breeze;“Hush! a violet,” sobbed the trees,“Thinks it’s spring—poor child, we fearShe will die if she should hear!”Softly stole the wind away,Tenderly he murmured, “Stay!”To a late thrush on the wing,“Stay with her one day and sing!”Sang the thrush so sweet and clearThat the sun came out to hear,And, in answer to her song,Beamed on violet all day long.—OLIVER HERFORD.
Very dark the autumn sky,Dark the clouds that hurried by;Very rough the autumn breezeShouting rudely to the trees.
Very dark the autumn sky,
Dark the clouds that hurried by;
Very rough the autumn breeze
Shouting rudely to the trees.
Listening, frightened, pale and cold,Through the withered leaves and mouldPeered a violet all in dread—“Where, oh, where is spring?” she said.
Listening, frightened, pale and cold,
Through the withered leaves and mould
Peered a violet all in dread—
“Where, oh, where is spring?” she said.
Sighed the trees, “Poor little thing!She may call in vain for spring!”And the grasses whispered low,“We must never let her know.”
Sighed the trees, “Poor little thing!
She may call in vain for spring!”
And the grasses whispered low,
“We must never let her know.”
“What’s this whispering?” roared the breeze;“Hush! a violet,” sobbed the trees,“Thinks it’s spring—poor child, we fearShe will die if she should hear!”
“What’s this whispering?” roared the breeze;
“Hush! a violet,” sobbed the trees,
“Thinks it’s spring—poor child, we fear
She will die if she should hear!”
Softly stole the wind away,Tenderly he murmured, “Stay!”To a late thrush on the wing,“Stay with her one day and sing!”
Softly stole the wind away,
Tenderly he murmured, “Stay!”
To a late thrush on the wing,
“Stay with her one day and sing!”
Sang the thrush so sweet and clearThat the sun came out to hear,And, in answer to her song,Beamed on violet all day long.—OLIVER HERFORD.
Sang the thrush so sweet and clear
That the sun came out to hear,
And, in answer to her song,
Beamed on violet all day long.
—OLIVER HERFORD.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Violet, little violet,Brave and true and sweet thou art.—ANONYMOUS.
Violet, little violet,Brave and true and sweet thou art.—ANONYMOUS.
Violet, little violet,
Brave and true and sweet thou art.
—ANONYMOUS.
“All nature mourns,” I said; “November wildHath torn the fairest pages from her book.”But suddenly a wild bird overheadPoured forth a strain so strangely clear and sweet,It seemed to bring me back the skies of May,And wake the sleeping violets at my feet.Then long I pondered o’er the poet’s words,“The loss of beauty is not always loss,”Till like the voice of love they soothed my pain,And gave me strength to bear again my cross.—ALBERT LAIGHTON.
“All nature mourns,” I said; “November wildHath torn the fairest pages from her book.”
“All nature mourns,” I said; “November wild
Hath torn the fairest pages from her book.”
But suddenly a wild bird overheadPoured forth a strain so strangely clear and sweet,It seemed to bring me back the skies of May,And wake the sleeping violets at my feet.
But suddenly a wild bird overhead
Poured forth a strain so strangely clear and sweet,
It seemed to bring me back the skies of May,
And wake the sleeping violets at my feet.
Then long I pondered o’er the poet’s words,“The loss of beauty is not always loss,”Till like the voice of love they soothed my pain,And gave me strength to bear again my cross.—ALBERT LAIGHTON.
Then long I pondered o’er the poet’s words,
“The loss of beauty is not always loss,”
Till like the voice of love they soothed my pain,
And gave me strength to bear again my cross.
—ALBERT LAIGHTON.
The violet’s gone,The first-born child of the early sun;With us she is but a winter’s flower,The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower,And she lifts up her dewy eye of blueTo the youngest sky of the self-same hue.—LORD BYRON.
The violet’s gone,The first-born child of the early sun;With us she is but a winter’s flower,The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower,And she lifts up her dewy eye of blueTo the youngest sky of the self-same hue.—LORD BYRON.
The violet’s gone,
The first-born child of the early sun;
With us she is but a winter’s flower,
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower,
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.
—LORD BYRON.
I picked thee violetsUpon a morn when the white mistWent trailing down the leas and madeA gauzy scarf to twine and twistAbout the feet of the blue hills.—MARY F. FAXON.
I picked thee violetsUpon a morn when the white mistWent trailing down the leas and madeA gauzy scarf to twine and twistAbout the feet of the blue hills.—MARY F. FAXON.
I picked thee violets
Upon a morn when the white mist
Went trailing down the leas and made
A gauzy scarf to twine and twist
About the feet of the blue hills.
—MARY F. FAXON.
Between her breasts that never yet felt troubleA bunch of violets full-blown and doubleSerenely sleep.—JOHN KEATS.
Between her breasts that never yet felt troubleA bunch of violets full-blown and doubleSerenely sleep.—JOHN KEATS.
Between her breasts that never yet felt trouble
A bunch of violets full-blown and double
Serenely sleep.
—JOHN KEATS.
Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv’st unseenWithin thy aery shell,By slow Meander’s argent green,And in the violet-embroidered vale.—JOHN MILTON.
Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv’st unseenWithin thy aery shell,By slow Meander’s argent green,And in the violet-embroidered vale.—JOHN MILTON.
Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv’st unseen
Within thy aery shell,
By slow Meander’s argent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale.
—JOHN MILTON.
Even the tiny violet can makeHer little circle sweet as love.—GRACE GREENWOOD.
Even the tiny violet can makeHer little circle sweet as love.—GRACE GREENWOOD.
Even the tiny violet can make
Her little circle sweet as love.
—GRACE GREENWOOD.
And Helen breathed the scent of violets, blownAlong the bosky shores.—BAYARD TAYLOR.
And Helen breathed the scent of violets, blownAlong the bosky shores.—BAYARD TAYLOR.
And Helen breathed the scent of violets, blown
Along the bosky shores.
—BAYARD TAYLOR.
There her head the golden lily rears,The soft-eyed violet sheds her odorous tears.—NICHOLAS MITCHELL.
There her head the golden lily rears,The soft-eyed violet sheds her odorous tears.—NICHOLAS MITCHELL.
There her head the golden lily rears,
The soft-eyed violet sheds her odorous tears.
—NICHOLAS MITCHELL.
I used to go and watch them,Both night and morning, too:—It was my tears, I fancy,That kept the violets blue.—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
I used to go and watch them,Both night and morning, too:—It was my tears, I fancy,That kept the violets blue.—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
I used to go and watch them,
Both night and morning, too:—
It was my tears, I fancy,
That kept the violets blue.
—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
My girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair,A soft hand, like a lady’s, soft and fair,A sweet face pouting in a white straw bonnet,A tiny foot, and little boot upon it.—ROBERT BUCHANAN.
My girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair,A soft hand, like a lady’s, soft and fair,A sweet face pouting in a white straw bonnet,A tiny foot, and little boot upon it.—ROBERT BUCHANAN.
My girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair,
A soft hand, like a lady’s, soft and fair,
A sweet face pouting in a white straw bonnet,
A tiny foot, and little boot upon it.
—ROBERT BUCHANAN.
Here the first violetsPerhaps will bud unseen,And a dove, maybe,Return to nestle here.—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
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.
Gold violets, bright violets,The sparkling dew at sunrise wets,And doth with nectar overbrim;Lustre no cloudy day can dim;The golden sun doth shine uponAnd call his children rare;The yellow-bird hath sometimes stirredDrawn downward unaware.—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Gold violets, bright violets,The sparkling dew at sunrise wets,And doth with nectar overbrim;Lustre no cloudy day can dim;The golden sun doth shine uponAnd call his children rare;The yellow-bird hath sometimes stirredDrawn downward unaware.—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Gold violets, bright violets,
The sparkling dew at sunrise wets,
And doth with nectar overbrim;
Lustre no cloudy day can dim;
The golden sun doth shine upon
And call his children rare;
The yellow-bird hath sometimes stirred
Drawn downward unaware.
—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Lay her in lilies and in violets.—EDMUND SPENSER.
Lay her in lilies and in violets.—EDMUND SPENSER.
Lay her in lilies and in violets.
—EDMUND SPENSER.
The violet’s blue,The rose bloom’s red,—and friends are tried and true;The blossoms on the boughs are white in spring,The wind is soft, the birds spread joyous wing,And soar and wheel in the blue sky, and sing,Because—because I love you.—FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.
The violet’s blue,The rose bloom’s red,—and friends are tried and true;The blossoms on the boughs are white in spring,The wind is soft, the birds spread joyous wing,And soar and wheel in the blue sky, and sing,Because—because I love you.—FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.
The violet’s blue,
The rose bloom’s red,—and friends are tried and true;
The blossoms on the boughs are white in spring,
The wind is soft, the birds spread joyous wing,
And soar and wheel in the blue sky, and sing,
Because—because I love you.
—FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.
In languid luxury soft she glidesEncircled by the azure tides,Like some fair lily, faint with weeping,Upon a bed of violets sleeping.—THOMAS MOORE.
In languid luxury soft she glidesEncircled by the azure tides,Like some fair lily, faint with weeping,Upon a bed of violets sleeping.—THOMAS MOORE.
In languid luxury soft she glides
Encircled by the azure tides,
Like some fair lily, faint with weeping,
Upon a bed of violets sleeping.
—THOMAS MOORE.
E’en now what affection the violet awakes;What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,Can the wild water-lily restore!—THOMAS CAMPBELL.
E’en now what affection the violet awakes;What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,Can the wild water-lily restore!—THOMAS CAMPBELL.
E’en now what affection the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore!
—THOMAS CAMPBELL.
Then by the enchantress Fancy led,On violet banks I lay my head.—JAMES MONTGOMERY.
Then by the enchantress Fancy led,On violet banks I lay my head.—JAMES MONTGOMERY.
Then by the enchantress Fancy led,
On violet banks I lay my head.
—JAMES MONTGOMERY.
The air is sweet with violets running wild’Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals.—SAMUEL ROGERS.
The air is sweet with violets running wild’Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals.—SAMUEL ROGERS.
The air is sweet with violets running wild
’Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals.
—SAMUEL ROGERS.
Mistress violet, mistress violet,I want your tender and true eyes!For mine are as cold and as black as jet,And I want your heavenly blue eyes!Modest violet, maiden violet,Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes?—ALICE CARY.
Mistress violet, mistress violet,I want your tender and true eyes!For mine are as cold and as black as jet,And I want your heavenly blue eyes!Modest violet, maiden violet,Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes?—ALICE CARY.
Mistress violet, mistress violet,
I want your tender and true eyes!
For mine are as cold and as black as jet,
And I want your heavenly blue eyes!
Modest violet, maiden violet,
Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes?
—ALICE CARY.
Flowers were the couch,Pansies and violets, and asphodels,And hyacinths, earth’s freshest, softest lap.—JOHN MILTON.
Flowers were the couch,Pansies and violets, and asphodels,And hyacinths, earth’s freshest, softest lap.—JOHN MILTON.
Flowers were the couch,
Pansies and violets, and asphodels,
And hyacinths, earth’s freshest, softest lap.
—JOHN MILTON.
Flowers, of such as keepTheir fragrant tissues and their heavenly huesFresh-bathed forever in eternal dews—The violet with her low-drooped eye,For learned modesty.—SIDNEY LANIER.
Flowers, of such as keepTheir fragrant tissues and their heavenly huesFresh-bathed forever in eternal dews—The violet with her low-drooped eye,For learned modesty.—SIDNEY LANIER.
Flowers, of such as keep
Their fragrant tissues and their heavenly hues
Fresh-bathed forever in eternal dews—
The violet with her low-drooped eye,
For learned modesty.
—SIDNEY LANIER.
Before the urchin well could go,She stole the whiteness of the snow;And more—the whiteness to adorn,She stole the blushes of the morn:Stole all the sweets that ether shedsOn primrose buds or violet beds.If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,Exert thy vengeance on this fair;To trial bring her stolen charms,And let her prison be my arms.—CHARLES WYNDHAM.
Before the urchin well could go,She stole the whiteness of the snow;And more—the whiteness to adorn,She stole the blushes of the morn:Stole all the sweets that ether shedsOn primrose buds or violet beds.If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,Exert thy vengeance on this fair;To trial bring her stolen charms,And let her prison be my arms.—CHARLES WYNDHAM.
Before the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow;
And more—the whiteness to adorn,
She stole the blushes of the morn:
Stole all the sweets that ether sheds
On primrose buds or violet beds.
If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,
Exert thy vengeance on this fair;
To trial bring her stolen charms,
And let her prison be my arms.
—CHARLES WYNDHAM.
Thine old-world eyes—each one a violet—Big as the baby rose that is thy mouth—Sets me a-dreaming. Have our eyes not metIn childhood—in a garden of the South?—HENRY A. BEERS.
Thine old-world eyes—each one a violet—Big as the baby rose that is thy mouth—Sets me a-dreaming. Have our eyes not metIn childhood—in a garden of the South?—HENRY A. BEERS.
Thine old-world eyes—each one a violet—
Big as the baby rose that is thy mouth—
Sets me a-dreaming. Have our eyes not met
In childhood—in a garden of the South?
—HENRY A. BEERS.
May his soft foot, where it treads,Gardens thence produce, and meads,And those meddowes full be setWith the rose and violet.—ROBERT HERRICK.
May his soft foot, where it treads,Gardens thence produce, and meads,And those meddowes full be setWith the rose and violet.—ROBERT HERRICK.
May his soft foot, where it treads,
Gardens thence produce, and meads,
And those meddowes full be set
With the rose and violet.
—ROBERT HERRICK.
I remember, I remember,The roses, red and white,The violets and the lily-cups—Those flowers made of light.—THOMAS HOOD.
I remember, I remember,The roses, red and white,The violets and the lily-cups—Those flowers made of light.—THOMAS HOOD.
I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups—
Those flowers made of light.
—THOMAS HOOD.
The light drop of dewThat glows in the violet’s eye,In the splendor of morn, to the fugitive view,May rival a star in the sky.—JAMES MONTGOMERY.
The light drop of dewThat glows in the violet’s eye,In the splendor of morn, to the fugitive view,May rival a star in the sky.—JAMES MONTGOMERY.
The light drop of dew
That glows in the violet’s eye,
In the splendor of morn, to the fugitive view,
May rival a star in the sky.
—JAMES MONTGOMERY.
I saw thee weep—the big bright tearCame o’er that eye of blue:And then methought it did appearA violet dropping dew.—LORD BYRON.
I saw thee weep—the big bright tearCame o’er that eye of blue:And then methought it did appearA violet dropping dew.—LORD BYRON.
I saw thee weep—the big bright tear
Came o’er that eye of blue:
And then methought it did appear
A violet dropping dew.
—LORD BYRON.
Oh Stream of Life! the violet springsBut once beside thy bed;But one brief summer, on thy path,The dews of heaven are shed.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Oh Stream of Life! the violet springsBut once beside thy bed;But one brief summer, on thy path,The dews of heaven are shed.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Oh Stream of Life! the violet springs
But once beside thy bed;
But one brief summer, on thy path,
The dews of heaven are shed.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Whate’er the baffling powerSent anger and earthquake, and a thousand ills—It made the violet flower,And the wide world with breathless beauty thrills.—RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
Whate’er the baffling powerSent anger and earthquake, and a thousand ills—It made the violet flower,And the wide world with breathless beauty thrills.—RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
Whate’er the baffling power
Sent anger and earthquake, and a thousand ills—
It made the violet flower,
And the wide world with breathless beauty thrills.
—RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The morning star of all the flowersThe virgin, virgin violet.—LORD BYRON.
The morning star of all the flowersThe virgin, virgin violet.—LORD BYRON.
The morning star of all the flowers
The virgin, virgin violet.
—LORD BYRON.
O Winter, thou art warm at heart;Thine every pulse doth throb and glow,And thou dost feel life’s joy and smart,Beneath the blinding snow.Thine is the scent of bursting bud,Of April shower and violet;Thou feelest spring in all thy bloodYearn up like sweet regret.—JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON.
O Winter, thou art warm at heart;Thine every pulse doth throb and glow,And thou dost feel life’s joy and smart,Beneath the blinding snow.
O Winter, thou art warm at heart;
Thine every pulse doth throb and glow,
And thou dost feel life’s joy and smart,
Beneath the blinding snow.
Thine is the scent of bursting bud,Of April shower and violet;Thou feelest spring in all thy bloodYearn up like sweet regret.—JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON.
Thine is the scent of bursting bud,
Of April shower and violet;
Thou feelest spring in all thy blood
Yearn up like sweet regret.
—JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON.
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.What joy sufficient hath November felt,What profit from the violets’ day of pain?—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.What joy sufficient hath November felt,What profit from the violets’ day of pain?—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt,
What profit from the violets’ day of pain?
—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Pluck the others, but still rememberTheir herald out of dim December—The morning-star of all the flowers,The pledge of daylight’s lengthened hours;Nor, midst the roses, e’er forgetThe virgin, virgin violet.—LORD BYRON.
Pluck the others, but still rememberTheir herald out of dim December—The morning-star of all the flowers,The pledge of daylight’s lengthened hours;Nor, midst the roses, e’er forgetThe virgin, virgin violet.—LORD BYRON.
Pluck the others, but still remember
Their herald out of dim December—
The morning-star of all the flowers,
The pledge of daylight’s lengthened hours;
Nor, midst the roses, e’er forget
The virgin, virgin violet.
—LORD BYRON.
Violet, little violet,Brave and true and sweet thou art.May is in thy sunny heart,Maiden violet.Gentle as the summer day,Wintry storms bring no dismay,Winsome violet.All the days to thee are spring,Thine own sunshine dost thou bring,Violet, faithful violet!—ANONYMOUS.
Violet, little violet,Brave and true and sweet thou art.May is in thy sunny heart,Maiden violet.Gentle as the summer day,Wintry storms bring no dismay,Winsome violet.All the days to thee are spring,Thine own sunshine dost thou bring,Violet, faithful violet!—ANONYMOUS.
Violet, little violet,
Brave and true and sweet thou art.
May is in thy sunny heart,
Maiden violet.
Gentle as the summer day,
Wintry storms bring no dismay,
Winsome violet.
All the days to thee are spring,
Thine own sunshine dost thou bring,
Violet, faithful violet!
—ANONYMOUS.
Only in dreams thy love comes back,And fills my soul with joy divine.Only in dreams I feel thy heartOnce more beat close to mine.Only in blissful dreams of spring,And sunny banks of violet blue,The past folds back its curtain dimAnd memory shows thine image true.—MELVILLE M. BIGELOW.
Only in dreams thy love comes back,And fills my soul with joy divine.Only in dreams I feel thy heartOnce more beat close to mine.
Only in dreams thy love comes back,
And fills my soul with joy divine.
Only in dreams I feel thy heart
Once more beat close to mine.
Only in blissful dreams of spring,And sunny banks of violet blue,The past folds back its curtain dimAnd memory shows thine image true.—MELVILLE M. BIGELOW.
Only in blissful dreams of spring,
And sunny banks of violet blue,
The past folds back its curtain dim
And memory shows thine image true.
—MELVILLE M. BIGELOW.
Winter is come again. There is no voiceOf waters with beguiling for your ear,And the cool forest and the meadows greenWitch not your feet away; and in the dellsThere are no violets.—NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
Winter is come again. There is no voiceOf waters with beguiling for your ear,And the cool forest and the meadows greenWitch not your feet away; and in the dellsThere are no violets.—NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
Winter is come again. There is no voice
Of waters with beguiling for your ear,
And the cool forest and the meadows green
Witch not your feet away; and in the dells
There are no violets.
—NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
Once more, dear friend, the violet bank we seek,And tread with joy our old familiar ways.—JESSIE CUNNINGHAM HOWDEN.
Once more, dear friend, the violet bank we seek,And tread with joy our old familiar ways.—JESSIE CUNNINGHAM HOWDEN.
Once more, dear friend, the violet bank we seek,
And tread with joy our old familiar ways.
—JESSIE CUNNINGHAM HOWDEN.
Cheek o’er cheek, and with red so tenderRippling bright through the gypsy brown,Just to see how a lady’s splendorShone the heads of the daffodils down.Winds through the violets’ misty coveringNow kissed the white ones and now the blue,Sang the redbreast over them hoveringAll as the world were but just made new.—ALICE CARY.
Cheek o’er cheek, and with red so tenderRippling bright through the gypsy brown,Just to see how a lady’s splendorShone the heads of the daffodils down.Winds through the violets’ misty coveringNow kissed the white ones and now the blue,Sang the redbreast over them hoveringAll as the world were but just made new.—ALICE CARY.
Cheek o’er cheek, and with red so tender
Rippling bright through the gypsy brown,
Just to see how a lady’s splendor
Shone the heads of the daffodils down.
Winds through the violets’ misty covering
Now kissed the white ones and now the blue,
Sang the redbreast over them hovering
All as the world were but just made new.
—ALICE CARY.
Daffodils,That come before the swallow dares, and takeThe winds of March with beauty; violets, dimBut sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyesOr Cytherea’s breath.—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
Daffodils,That come before the swallow dares, and takeThe winds of March with beauty; violets, dimBut sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyesOr Cytherea’s breath.—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes
Or Cytherea’s breath.
—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
Could you not come when woods are green?Could you not come when lambs are seen?When the primrose laughs from its child-like sleep,And the violets hide and the bluebells peep?—ALFRED AUSTIN.
Could you not come when woods are green?Could you not come when lambs are seen?When the primrose laughs from its child-like sleep,And the violets hide and the bluebells peep?—ALFRED AUSTIN.
Could you not come when woods are green?
Could you not come when lambs are seen?
When the primrose laughs from its child-like sleep,
And the violets hide and the bluebells peep?
—ALFRED AUSTIN.
Thy face is like the violet’sThat to the red rose lingers close,And he who looks at thee forgetsThe honeyed sweetness of the rose.—JOEL BENTON.
Thy face is like the violet’sThat to the red rose lingers close,And he who looks at thee forgetsThe honeyed sweetness of the rose.—JOEL BENTON.
Thy face is like the violet’s
That to the red rose lingers close,
And he who looks at thee forgets
The honeyed sweetness of the rose.
—JOEL BENTON.
He gave her the wildwood rosesAnd violets for her wreath,And a whisper at last of sweet responseStole on her perfumed breath.—FRANCES L. MACE.
He gave her the wildwood rosesAnd violets for her wreath,And a whisper at last of sweet responseStole on her perfumed breath.—FRANCES L. MACE.
He gave her the wildwood roses
And violets for her wreath,
And a whisper at last of sweet response
Stole on her perfumed breath.
—FRANCES L. MACE.
Come not, O sweet days,Out of yon cloudless blue,Ghosts of so many dear remembered Mays,With faces like dead lovers, who died true.Come not, lest we go seek with eyes all wet,Primrose and violet,Forgetting that they lieDeep in the mould till winter has gone by.—DINAH MARIA MULOCH CRAIK.
Come not, O sweet days,Out of yon cloudless blue,Ghosts of so many dear remembered Mays,With faces like dead lovers, who died true.Come not, lest we go seek with eyes all wet,Primrose and violet,Forgetting that they lieDeep in the mould till winter has gone by.—DINAH MARIA MULOCH CRAIK.
Come not, O sweet days,
Out of yon cloudless blue,
Ghosts of so many dear remembered Mays,
With faces like dead lovers, who died true.
Come not, lest we go seek with eyes all wet,
Primrose and violet,
Forgetting that they lie
Deep in the mould till winter has gone by.
—DINAH MARIA MULOCH CRAIK.
Blighting and blowing—blighting and blowing—And the stones of the rivulet silent lie,And the winds in the fading woodlands cry,And the birds in the clouds are going;And the dandelion hides his gold,And their little blue tents the violets fold,And the air is gray with snowing:So life keeps coming and going.—ALICE CARY.
Blighting and blowing—blighting and blowing—And the stones of the rivulet silent lie,And the winds in the fading woodlands cry,And the birds in the clouds are going;And the dandelion hides his gold,And their little blue tents the violets fold,And the air is gray with snowing:So life keeps coming and going.—ALICE CARY.
Blighting and blowing—blighting and blowing—
And the stones of the rivulet silent lie,
And the winds in the fading woodlands cry,
And the birds in the clouds are going;
And the dandelion hides his gold,
And their little blue tents the violets fold,
And the air is gray with snowing:
So life keeps coming and going.
—ALICE CARY.
Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god’s lair·······To sink o’erdrowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blewAround my head and feet silently there,Till spring’s glad choir adown the valley pealedAnd violets trembled in the morning dew.—EDWARD DOWDEN.
Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god’s lair·······To sink o’erdrowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blewAround my head and feet silently there,Till spring’s glad choir adown the valley pealedAnd violets trembled in the morning dew.—EDWARD DOWDEN.
Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god’s lair
·······
To sink o’erdrowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blew
Around my head and feet silently there,
Till spring’s glad choir adown the valley pealed
And violets trembled in the morning dew.
—EDWARD DOWDEN.
The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill,The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill,The breaths that noon exhales are faint and chill.Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew,Where to spring winds their soft eyes open flew;Safely they sleep the churlish winter through.Though all life’s portals are indiced with woe,And frozen pearls are all the world can show,Feel! Nature’s breath is warm beneath the snow!—ANONYMOUS.
The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill,The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill,The breaths that noon exhales are faint and chill.
The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill,
The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill,
The breaths that noon exhales are faint and chill.
Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew,Where to spring winds their soft eyes open flew;Safely they sleep the churlish winter through.
Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew,
Where to spring winds their soft eyes open flew;
Safely they sleep the churlish winter through.
Though all life’s portals are indiced with woe,And frozen pearls are all the world can show,Feel! Nature’s breath is warm beneath the snow!—ANONYMOUS.
Though all life’s portals are indiced with woe,
And frozen pearls are all the world can show,
Feel! Nature’s breath is warm beneath the snow!
—ANONYMOUS.
You’ll look at least on love’s remains,A grave’s one violet?Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What’s death? You’ll love me yet!—ROBERT BROWNING.
You’ll look at least on love’s remains,A grave’s one violet?Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What’s death? You’ll love me yet!—ROBERT BROWNING.
You’ll look at least on love’s remains,
A grave’s one violet?
Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.
What’s death? You’ll love me yet!
—ROBERT BROWNING.
Out of every shadowy nookSpirit faces seem to look,Some with smiling eyes, and someWith a sad entreaty dumb;He who shepherded his sheepOn the wild Sicilian steep,He above whose grave are setSprays of Roman violet;Poets, sages,—all who wroughtIn the crucible of thought.—CLINTON SCOLLARD.
Out of every shadowy nookSpirit faces seem to look,Some with smiling eyes, and someWith a sad entreaty dumb;He who shepherded his sheepOn the wild Sicilian steep,He above whose grave are setSprays of Roman violet;Poets, sages,—all who wroughtIn the crucible of thought.—CLINTON SCOLLARD.
Out of every shadowy nook
Spirit faces seem to look,
Some with smiling eyes, and some
With a sad entreaty dumb;
He who shepherded his sheep
On the wild Sicilian steep,
He above whose grave are set
Sprays of Roman violet;
Poets, sages,—all who wrought
In the crucible of thought.
—CLINTON SCOLLARD.
A fair little girl sat under a treeSewing as long as her eyes could see;Then smoothed her work and folded it right,And said, “Dear work, good night, good night!”The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;The violets curtsied and went to bed;And good little Lucy tied up her hair,And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.—RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
A fair little girl sat under a treeSewing as long as her eyes could see;Then smoothed her work and folded it right,And said, “Dear work, good night, good night!”
A fair little girl sat under a tree
Sewing as long as her eyes could see;
Then smoothed her work and folded it right,
And said, “Dear work, good night, good night!”
The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;The violets curtsied and went to bed;And good little Lucy tied up her hair,And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.—RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;
The violets curtsied and went to bed;
And good little Lucy tied up her hair,
And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.
—RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
My banks they are furnished with bees,Whose murmur invites one to sleep;My grottoes are shaded with trees,And my hills are white over with sheep;I seldom have met with a loss,Such health do my fountains bestow;My fountains all bordered with moss,Where the harebells and violets grow.—WILLIAM SHENSTONE.
My banks they are furnished with bees,Whose murmur invites one to sleep;My grottoes are shaded with trees,And my hills are white over with sheep;I seldom have met with a loss,Such health do my fountains bestow;My fountains all bordered with moss,Where the harebells and violets grow.—WILLIAM SHENSTONE.
My banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep;
I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all bordered with moss,
Where the harebells and violets grow.
—WILLIAM SHENSTONE.
Where the fern in gladness dancesOn the banks of dimpled burns,Where the streamlet’s bright wave glancesWhen the spring returns;White as winter’s spotless driftThere our faces we uplift.Still we see the stars above us,Still we trust, because they love us—Are they flowers in the sky,Violets that have learned to fly?We believe, and hope, and trust,Know that He who made is just,And He never will forsake usWhile we’re white and pure of heart.Sister, maiden Sister, take us—One of us thou art!—WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
Where the fern in gladness dancesOn the banks of dimpled burns,Where the streamlet’s bright wave glancesWhen the spring returns;White as winter’s spotless driftThere our faces we uplift.Still we see the stars above us,Still we trust, because they love us—Are they flowers in the sky,Violets that have learned to fly?We believe, and hope, and trust,Know that He who made is just,And He never will forsake usWhile we’re white and pure of heart.Sister, maiden Sister, take us—One of us thou art!—WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
Where the fern in gladness dances
On the banks of dimpled burns,
Where the streamlet’s bright wave glances
When the spring returns;
White as winter’s spotless drift
There our faces we uplift.
Still we see the stars above us,
Still we trust, because they love us—
Are they flowers in the sky,
Violets that have learned to fly?
We believe, and hope, and trust,
Know that He who made is just,
And He never will forsake us
While we’re white and pure of heart.
Sister, maiden Sister, take us—
One of us thou art!
—WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
O violets, sweet blue eyes of the spring!—DEXTER SMITH.
O violets, sweet blue eyes of the spring!—DEXTER SMITH.
O violets, sweet blue eyes of the spring!
—DEXTER SMITH.
Here’s the violet’s modest blue,That ’neath hawthorns hides from view.While they choose each lovely spot,The sun disdains them not;So I’ve brought the flowers to pleadAnd win a smile from thee.—JOHN CLARE.
Here’s the violet’s modest blue,That ’neath hawthorns hides from view.While they choose each lovely spot,The sun disdains them not;So I’ve brought the flowers to pleadAnd win a smile from thee.—JOHN CLARE.
Here’s the violet’s modest blue,
That ’neath hawthorns hides from view.
While they choose each lovely spot,
The sun disdains them not;
So I’ve brought the flowers to plead
And win a smile from thee.
—JOHN CLARE.
Last night I found the violetsYou sent me once across the sea;From gardens that the winter frets,In summer lands they came to me.Still fragrant of the English earth,Still hurried from the frozen dew,To me they spoke of Christmas mirth,They spoke of England, spoke of you.—ANDREW LANG.
Last night I found the violetsYou sent me once across the sea;From gardens that the winter frets,In summer lands they came to me.
Last night I found the violets
You sent me once across the sea;
From gardens that the winter frets,
In summer lands they came to me.
Still fragrant of the English earth,Still hurried from the frozen dew,To me they spoke of Christmas mirth,They spoke of England, spoke of you.—ANDREW LANG.
Still fragrant of the English earth,
Still hurried from the frozen dew,
To me they spoke of Christmas mirth,
They spoke of England, spoke of you.
—ANDREW LANG.
Darling, walk with me this morn;Let your brown tresses drink its sheen;These violets, within them worn,Of floral fays shall make you queen.—EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
Darling, walk with me this morn;Let your brown tresses drink its sheen;These violets, within them worn,Of floral fays shall make you queen.—EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
Darling, walk with me this morn;
Let your brown tresses drink its sheen;
These violets, within them worn,
Of floral fays shall make you queen.
—EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
O faint, delicious, springtime violet!Thine odor, like a key,Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to letA thought of sorrow free.—WILLIAM W. STORY.
O faint, delicious, springtime violet!Thine odor, like a key,Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to letA thought of sorrow free.—WILLIAM W. STORY.
O faint, delicious, springtime violet!
Thine odor, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.
—WILLIAM W. STORY.
The violet, Spring’s little infant, standsGirt in thy purple swaddling-bands;On the fair tulip thou dost dote,Thou cloth’st it in a gay and party-colored coat.—ABRAHAM COWLEY.
The violet, Spring’s little infant, standsGirt in thy purple swaddling-bands;On the fair tulip thou dost dote,Thou cloth’st it in a gay and party-colored coat.—ABRAHAM COWLEY.
The violet, Spring’s little infant, stands
Girt in thy purple swaddling-bands;
On the fair tulip thou dost dote,
Thou cloth’st it in a gay and party-colored coat.
—ABRAHAM COWLEY.
Under the larch with its tassels wet,While the early sunbeams lingered yet,In the rosy dawn my love I met.Under the larch when the sun was set,He came with an April violet:Forty years—and I have it yet.Out of life with its fond regret,What have love and memory yet?Only an April violet.—ANONYMOUS.
Under the larch with its tassels wet,While the early sunbeams lingered yet,In the rosy dawn my love I met.
Under the larch with its tassels wet,
While the early sunbeams lingered yet,
In the rosy dawn my love I met.
Under the larch when the sun was set,He came with an April violet:Forty years—and I have it yet.
Under the larch when the sun was set,
He came with an April violet:
Forty years—and I have it yet.
Out of life with its fond regret,What have love and memory yet?Only an April violet.—ANONYMOUS.
Out of life with its fond regret,
What have love and memory yet?
Only an April violet.
—ANONYMOUS.
Good-bye to the red rose that is your mouth,The tender violets that are your sigh;The sweetness that you are—that is my South—Ah, not too soon, Enchantress, do I fly!—Tell me good-bye!—RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
Good-bye to the red rose that is your mouth,The tender violets that are your sigh;The sweetness that you are—that is my South—Ah, not too soon, Enchantress, do I fly!—Tell me good-bye!—RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
Good-bye to the red rose that is your mouth,
The tender violets that are your sigh;
The sweetness that you are—that is my South—
Ah, not too soon, Enchantress, do I fly!—
Tell me good-bye!
—RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
Through the deep drifts the south wind breathed its wayDown to the earth’s green face; the air grew warm,The snowdrops had regained their lovely charm;The world had melted round them in a day:My full heart longed for violets.—CHARLES TENNYSON-TURNER.
Through the deep drifts the south wind breathed its wayDown to the earth’s green face; the air grew warm,The snowdrops had regained their lovely charm;The world had melted round them in a day:My full heart longed for violets.—CHARLES TENNYSON-TURNER.
Through the deep drifts the south wind breathed its way
Down to the earth’s green face; the air grew warm,
The snowdrops had regained their lovely charm;
The world had melted round them in a day:
My full heart longed for violets.
—CHARLES TENNYSON-TURNER.
The sweetness of the violet’s deep blue eyes,Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems colored by its skies.—LORD BYRON.
The sweetness of the violet’s deep blue eyes,Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems colored by its skies.—LORD BYRON.
The sweetness of the violet’s deep blue eyes,
Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems colored by its skies.
—LORD BYRON.
When we were children we would say,—“I like the coming of the spring,I like the violets of May,I like, why, almost everythingThat March and May and April bring.”But now we value less the rose,And care not when the birds take wing.We like the winter and the snows.—JAMES BERRY BENSEL.
When we were children we would say,—“I like the coming of the spring,I like the violets of May,I like, why, almost everythingThat March and May and April bring.”But now we value less the rose,And care not when the birds take wing.We like the winter and the snows.—JAMES BERRY BENSEL.
When we were children we would say,—
“I like the coming of the spring,
I like the violets of May,
I like, why, almost everything
That March and May and April bring.”
But now we value less the rose,
And care not when the birds take wing.
We like the winter and the snows.
—JAMES BERRY BENSEL.
So long as there’s a sun that sets,Primroses will have their glory;Long as there are violetsThey will have a place in story.—WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
So long as there’s a sun that sets,Primroses will have their glory;Long as there are violetsThey will have a place in story.—WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
So long as there’s a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets
They will have a place in story.
—WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Go, azure myrtle blossom,Go, violets and jasmine fair,And star the darkness of her hair,Or faint against her bosom.—GRACE GREENWOOD.
Go, azure myrtle blossom,Go, violets and jasmine fair,And star the darkness of her hair,Or faint against her bosom.—GRACE GREENWOOD.
Go, azure myrtle blossom,
Go, violets and jasmine fair,
And star the darkness of her hair,
Or faint against her bosom.
—GRACE GREENWOOD.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet.—JOHN MILTON.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet.—JOHN MILTON.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet.
—JOHN MILTON.