The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Violet Book

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Violet BookThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Violet BookCompiler: Willis Boyd AllenRelease date: February 19, 2013 [eBook #42134]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VIOLET BOOK ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Violet BookCompiler: Willis Boyd AllenRelease date: February 19, 2013 [eBook #42134]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

Title: The Violet Book

Compiler: Willis Boyd Allen

Release date: February 19, 2013 [eBook #42134]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VIOLET BOOK ***

THE VIOLET BOOK

THE VIOLET BOOKBut who hath breathed the scent of violets,And not that moment been a lover glad?—ARLO BATES.

Go, modest little violets, and lie upon her breast;Your eyes will tell her something—perhaps she’ll guess the rest!

Arranged byWILLIS BOYD ALLEN

“Such a starved bank of moss,Till, that May morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born.”Browning

“Such a starved bank of moss,

Till, that May morn,

Blue ran the flash across:

Violets were born.”

Browning

PHILADELPHIAGEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.PUBLISHERS

All rights reservedPrinted in U. S. A.

TO HERFor whom this little company of her sisters was first gathered.

Many of the selections in this volume are waifs and strays, found in obscure periodicals and newspapers, or in long-forgotten books on the dusty shelves of libraries. Some of them have been gathered from copyrighted works, and for the use of these the compiler owes and renders his best thanks.

Special acknowledgments are due to the following publishers and copyright holders:

The Houghton, Mifflin Company, for selections from the poems of John Greenleaf Whittier, Edith M. Thomas, Celia Thaxter, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Richard Watson Gilder, John Hay, Lucy Larcom, George E. Woodbury, Alice and Phœbe Cary, Ralph Waldo Emerson, James Russell Lowell,Bayard Taylor, Harriet Prescott Spofford, Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, and Edmund Clarence Stedman; Messrs. Little, Brown and Company, for lines by Louise Chandler Moulton and Helen Hunt Jackson; Messrs. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, for selections from the works of Dora Read Goodale and Myrtle Reed; Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons, for extracts from the writings of Henry Van Dyke, Mary Mapes Dodge, Oliver Herford, and Frances Hodgson Burnett; and Messrs. Lothrop, Lee and Shepard, for permission to quote from Clinton Scollard’s work.

Next to the rose, whose divine right to monarchy cannot be questioned, the violet is the poet’s flower. No other is mentioned so frequently, or with such affection.

It is impossible to say when this familiar flower first blossomed in literature. The “Odyssey” would not be complete without it, nor would the “Eclogues” of the Roman singer, Virgil. Ovid was fond of horticulture, and the violet was not forgotten when the bard was inditing his smooth-flowing hexameters. Pliny and Cicero, too, were violet-lovers. In the Bible there is no mention of the flower; but in Chrysostom’s “First Homily” occurs perhaps the first appearance of our little friend in Christian literature.

Chaucer’s affection for “floures” is well known. Of the many Shakspearean quotations in this field, probably the most familiar comprises the exquisite lines:

“Violets dim,But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyesOr Cytherea’s breath.”

“Violets dim,

But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes

Or Cytherea’s breath.”

Passing to the more recent literary period, the individual taste of the poet becomes noticeable. Strange to relate, Wordsworth could have cared little for the shy blossom. Although he does say,

“Long as there are violetsThey will have their place in story,”

“Long as there are violets

They will have their place in story,”

he leaves it to others to tell the story,—referring to the violet only three or four times in all his voluminous writings. His counterpart in this respect, among American poets, isLongfellow, in whose musical numbers, singularly enough, the violet has almost no place at all. Nor was the flower a favorite with Tennyson, though each of his rare references to it is a gem; as this,—

“The meadow your walks have left so sweetThat wherever a March wind sighs,He sets the jewel-prints of his feetIn violets blue as your eyes.”

“The meadow your walks have left so sweet

That wherever a March wind sighs,

He sets the jewel-prints of his feet

In violets blue as your eyes.”

American writers have, on the whole, given the violet a more prominent place than have their English brethren of the lyre. Bryant’s pages, for instance, are fragrant with its perfume, and he has, in special, immortalized the yellow variety in more than one finely turned stanza.

If most of the world’s great bards have been reluctant to give Lady Violet her due,not so the numerous rank and file of “minor poets.” The verse of Alice Cary, Lucy Larcom, Grace Greenwood, Elizabeth Akers, Adelaide Proctor and dozens of others is a garden of wild-flowers, with the violet leading the dance. Some of the prettiest conceits occur in the writings of authors so obscure that their names are unfamiliar to most readers. For instance, one must look far for a volume of poetry bearing the name of Ethel M. Kelley; yet these fine lines are attributed to her:

“In her hair the sunbeams nest,And in her eyes the violets blow,While in the summer of her breastThe songbird thoughts flit to and fro.”

“In her hair the sunbeams nest,

And in her eyes the violets blow,

While in the summer of her breast

The songbird thoughts flit to and fro.”

The compiler of this book has spent many pleasant hours in culling his violets from the immense field of English and American poetry.Another volume of equal size could readily be made up from extracts containing references to the flower, to say nothing of German, French, Spanish, Italian, and Scandinavian poetry, which has not been considered in his quest.

WILLIS BOYD ALLEN

CHAPTER ONE

The silent, soft and humble heartIn the violet’s hidden sweetness breathes.—JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

The silent, soft and humble heart

In the violet’s hidden sweetness breathes.

—JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

The air is white with snow-flakes clinging;Between the gusts that come and goMethinks I hear the woodlark singing.Or can it be the breeze is bringingThe breath of violets?—Ah, no!The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.It is my lady’s voice that’s stringingIts beads of gold to song; and soMethinks I hear the woodlark singing.The violets I see upspringingAre in my lady’s eyes, I trow;The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.—JOHN PAYNE.

The air is white with snow-flakes clinging;Between the gusts that come and goMethinks I hear the woodlark singing.

The air is white with snow-flakes clinging;

Between the gusts that come and go

Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.

Or can it be the breeze is bringingThe breath of violets?—Ah, no!The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.

Or can it be the breeze is bringing

The breath of violets?—Ah, no!

The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.

It is my lady’s voice that’s stringingIts beads of gold to song; and soMethinks I hear the woodlark singing.

It is my lady’s voice that’s stringing

Its beads of gold to song; and so

Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.

The violets I see upspringingAre in my lady’s eyes, I trow;The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.—JOHN PAYNE.

The violets I see upspringing

Are in my lady’s eyes, I trow;

The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.

—JOHN PAYNE.

A chaplet on her head she wore(Heigho, the chaplet!);Of sweet violets therein was store—She’s sweeter than the violet.—EDMUND SPENSER.

A chaplet on her head she wore

(Heigho, the chaplet!);

Of sweet violets therein was store—

She’s sweeter than the violet.

—EDMUND SPENSER.

Tell me, this sweet morn,Tell me all you know,—Tell me, was I born?Tell me, did I grow?Fell I from the blueLike a drop of rain,Then, as violets do,Blossomed up again?—ROBERT BUCHANAN.

Tell me, this sweet morn,

Tell me all you know,—

Tell me, was I born?

Tell me, did I grow?

Fell I from the blue

Like a drop of rain,

Then, as violets do,

Blossomed up again?

—ROBERT BUCHANAN.

Misty grew the violets of her eyes.—HELEN B. BOSTWICK.

Misty grew the violets of her eyes.

—HELEN B. BOSTWICK.

The violet loves the sunny bank,The cowslip loves the lea,The scarlet creeper loves the elm;But I love—thee.—BAYARD TAYLOR.

The violet loves the sunny bank,

The cowslip loves the lea,

The scarlet creeper loves the elm;

But I love—thee.

—BAYARD TAYLOR.

Your name pronounced brings to my heartA feeling like the violet’s breath.—COVENTRY PATMORE.

Your name pronounced brings to my heart

A feeling like the violet’s breath.

—COVENTRY PATMORE.

Out from the leaves of my “Lucille”Falls a faded violet.Sweet and faint as its fragrance stealOut from the leaves of my “Lucille”Tender memories, and I feelA sense of longing and regret.Out from the leaves of my “Lucille”Falls a faded violet.—WALTER LEARNED.

Out from the leaves of my “Lucille”

Falls a faded violet.

Sweet and faint as its fragrance steal

Out from the leaves of my “Lucille”

Tender memories, and I feel

A sense of longing and regret.

Out from the leaves of my “Lucille”

Falls a faded violet.

—WALTER LEARNED.

Be other brows by pleasure’s wreathOr glory’s coronal oppressed,To me the humblest flower seems best,Some sweet wild bloom with dews still wet.So, Love, but kiss a violet—O, Love, but kiss a violet—And fling it to my breast!—GRACE GREENWOOD.

Be other brows by pleasure’s wreath

Or glory’s coronal oppressed,

To me the humblest flower seems best,

Some sweet wild bloom with dews still wet.

So, Love, but kiss a violet—

O, Love, but kiss a violet—

And fling it to my breast!

—GRACE GREENWOOD.

Within my reach!I could have touched!I might have chanced that way!Soft sauntered through the village,Sauntered as soft away!So unsuspected violetsWithin the fields lie low,Too late for striving fingersThat passed an hour ago.—EMILY DICKINSON.

Within my reach!

I could have touched!

I might have chanced that way!

Soft sauntered through the village,

Sauntered as soft away!

So unsuspected violets

Within the fields lie low,

Too late for striving fingers

That passed an hour ago.

—EMILY DICKINSON.

The silent, soft and humble heartIn the violet’s hidden sweetness breathes.—JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

The silent, soft and humble heart

In the violet’s hidden sweetness breathes.

—JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

Perchance the violets o’er my dustWill half betray their buried trust,And say, their blue eyes full of dew,“She loved you better than you knew.”—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Perchance the violets o’er my dust

Will half betray their buried trust,

And say, their blue eyes full of dew,

“She loved you better than you knew.”

—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Nature does not recognizeThis strife that rends the earth and skies;No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of clover-heads and daisy-eyes:When blood her grassy altar wets,She sends the pitying violetsTo heal the outrage with their bloom and cover it with soft regrets.—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Nature does not recognize

This strife that rends the earth and skies;

No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of clover-heads and daisy-eyes:

When blood her grassy altar wets,

She sends the pitying violets

To heal the outrage with their bloom and cover it with soft regrets.

—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs,Many bright mornings, much dew, many showersPassed o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings,Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers.And still a new succession sings and flies;Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shootTowards the old and still enduring skies;While the low violet thrives at their root.—HENRY VAUGHAN.

Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs,Many bright mornings, much dew, many showersPassed o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings,Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers.

Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs,

Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers

Passed o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings,

Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers.

And still a new succession sings and flies;Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shootTowards the old and still enduring skies;While the low violet thrives at their root.—HENRY VAUGHAN.

And still a new succession sings and flies;

Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot

Towards the old and still enduring skies;

While the low violet thrives at their root.

—HENRY VAUGHAN.

Blue eyesWhose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies.—THOMAS MOORE.

Blue eyes

Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies.

—THOMAS MOORE.

Love comes and goes as the free wind blows,That asks not, as it passes,If it touches the head of the roses redOr the violets down in the grasses.—HOSEA G. BLAKE.

Love comes and goes as the free wind blows,

That asks not, as it passes,

If it touches the head of the roses red

Or the violets down in the grasses.

—HOSEA G. BLAKE.

Little maid, a violetIs knocking at your door,Eagerly its message sweetRepeating o’er and o’er:“Some one sent me with his love,—Take me, I implore!”—ANONYMOUS.

Little maid, a violet

Is knocking at your door,

Eagerly its message sweet

Repeating o’er and o’er:

“Some one sent me with his love,—

Take me, I implore!”

—ANONYMOUS.

Where fall the tears of love the rose appears,And where the ground is bright with friendship’s tears,Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue,Spring, glittering with the cheerful drops like dew.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Where fall the tears of love the rose appears,

And where the ground is bright with friendship’s tears,

Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue,

Spring, glittering with the cheerful drops like dew.

—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

We shall be, as we are,(Still breathes the secret strain)Within our Father’s loving careWhen violets come again.—EMILY S. OAKEY.

We shall be, as we are,

(Still breathes the secret strain)

Within our Father’s loving care

When violets come again.

—EMILY S. OAKEY.

Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white,On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light,O’er the cold winter beds of their late-waking rootsThe frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots.—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white,

On south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light,

O’er the cold winter beds of their late-waking roots

The frosty flake eddies, the ice crystal shoots.

—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

When Roman fields are red with cyclamen,And in the palace gardens you may find,Under great leaves and sheltering briony-bind,Clusters of cream-white violets, O thenThe ruined city of immortal menMust smile, a little to her fate resigned.—EDMUND W. GOSSE.

When Roman fields are red with cyclamen,

And in the palace gardens you may find,

Under great leaves and sheltering briony-bind,

Clusters of cream-white violets, O then

The ruined city of immortal men

Must smile, a little to her fate resigned.

—EDMUND W. GOSSE.

Beside me, where I rest,Thy loving hands will setThe flowers that please me best,Moss-rose and violet.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Beside me, where I rest,

Thy loving hands will set

The flowers that please me best,

Moss-rose and violet.

—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Once in a dream I saw the flowersThat bud and bloom in Paradise;More fair they are than waking eyesHave seen in all this world of ours.And faint the perfume-bearing rose,And faint the lily on its stem,And faint the perfect violet,Compared with them.—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

Once in a dream I saw the flowers

That bud and bloom in Paradise;

More fair they are than waking eyes

Have seen in all this world of ours.

And faint the perfume-bearing rose,

And faint the lily on its stem,

And faint the perfect violet,

Compared with them.

—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

I do not knowThe subtle secret of the snow,That hides away the violetsTill April teaches them to blow.Enough for meTheir tender loveliness to see,Assured that little things and largeFulfil God’s purpose equally.—MARY BRADLEY.

I do not know

The subtle secret of the snow,

That hides away the violets

Till April teaches them to blow.

Enough for me

Their tender loveliness to see,

Assured that little things and large

Fulfil God’s purpose equally.

—MARY BRADLEY.

Violet, sweet violet!Thine eyes are full of tears;Are they wet,Even yet,With the thoughts of other years?Or with gladness are they full,For the night so beautiful,And longing for those far-off spheres?Violet, dear violet,Thy blue eyes are only wetWith joy and love of Him who sent thee,And for the fulfilling senseOf that glad obedienceWhich made thee all that Nature meant thee.—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Violet, sweet violet!

Thine eyes are full of tears;

Are they wet,

Even yet,

With the thoughts of other years?

Or with gladness are they full,

For the night so beautiful,

And longing for those far-off spheres?

Violet, dear violet,Thy blue eyes are only wetWith joy and love of Him who sent thee,And for the fulfilling senseOf that glad obedienceWhich made thee all that Nature meant thee.—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Violet, dear violet,

Thy blue eyes are only wet

With joy and love of Him who sent thee,

And for the fulfilling sense

Of that glad obedience

Which made thee all that Nature meant thee.

—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

CHAPTER TWO

Violets, shy violets,How many hearts with thee compare!—ANONYMOUS.

Violets, shy violets,

How many hearts with thee compare!

—ANONYMOUS.

Under a mantle of frost-work and snow,Close by the arc of the fairy-queen’s ring,Sleeping in delicate grottoes of ice,Clusters of violets dream of the spring.—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.

Under a mantle of frost-work and snow,

Close by the arc of the fairy-queen’s ring,

Sleeping in delicate grottoes of ice,

Clusters of violets dream of the spring.

—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.

That strain again! It had a dying fall:Oh! it came o’er my ear like the sweet south,That breathes upon a bank of violetsStealing and giving odor.—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

That strain again! It had a dying fall:

Oh! it came o’er my ear like the sweet south,

That breathes upon a bank of violets

Stealing and giving odor.

—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

Slow rose the silken-fringèd lids, and eyesLike violets wet with dew drank in the light.—GRACE GREENWOOD.

Slow rose the silken-fringèd lids, and eyes

Like violets wet with dew drank in the light.

—GRACE GREENWOOD.

The careful little violet,She makes me think of you,Holding her leafy petticoatsFrom out the morning dew.—ALICE CARY.

The careful little violet,

She makes me think of you,

Holding her leafy petticoats

From out the morning dew.

—ALICE CARY.

The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetlyAs in the air of her native East.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly

As in the air of her native East.

—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

When the earliest violets opeOn the sunniest southern slope,When the air is sweet and keenEre the full-blown flower is seen,When that blithe, forerunning airBreathes more hope than thou canst bear,Thou, oh buried, broken heart,Into quivering life shalt start.—EDITH M. THOMAS.

When the earliest violets ope

On the sunniest southern slope,

When the air is sweet and keen

Ere the full-blown flower is seen,

When that blithe, forerunning air

Breathes more hope than thou canst bear,

Thou, oh buried, broken heart,

Into quivering life shalt start.

—EDITH M. THOMAS.

The wind-flowers and the violets were still too sound asleep,Under the snow’s warm blanket, close folded, soft and deep.—CELIA THAXTER.

The wind-flowers and the violets were still too sound asleep,

Under the snow’s warm blanket, close folded, soft and deep.

—CELIA THAXTER.

Beautiful maid, discreet,Where is the mate that is meet,Meet for thee—strive as he could—Yet will I kneel at thy feet,Fearing another one should,Violet!—COSMO MONKHOUSE.

Beautiful maid, discreet,

Where is the mate that is meet,

Meet for thee—strive as he could—

Yet will I kneel at thy feet,

Fearing another one should,

Violet!

—COSMO MONKHOUSE.

Violets, shy violets,How many hearts with thee compare,Who hide themselves in thickest green,And thence unseenRavish the enraptured airWith sweetness, dewy, fresh and fair!—ANONYMOUS.

Violets, shy violets,

How many hearts with thee compare,

Who hide themselves in thickest green,

And thence unseen

Ravish the enraptured air

With sweetness, dewy, fresh and fair!

—ANONYMOUS.

I think the very violetsAre looking the way you’ll come!—ALICE CARY.

I think the very violets

Are looking the way you’ll come!

—ALICE CARY.

Once, long ago, in summer’s glow,We threaded, you and I,A garden’s maze of pleasant ways,Whose beauty charmed the eye,—Where violets bent in sweet contentAnd pinks stood proud and high.—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Once, long ago, in summer’s glow,

We threaded, you and I,

A garden’s maze of pleasant ways,

Whose beauty charmed the eye,—

Where violets bent in sweet content

And pinks stood proud and high.

—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Then, feeble man, be wise, tak tentHow industry can fetch content.Behold the bees where’er they wing,Or through the bonny bowers o’ spring,Where violets or roses blaw,An’ siller dew-draps nightly fa’.—ROBERT FERGUSON.

Then, feeble man, be wise, tak tent

How industry can fetch content.

Behold the bees where’er they wing,

Or through the bonny bowers o’ spring,

Where violets or roses blaw,

An’ siller dew-draps nightly fa’.

—ROBERT FERGUSON.

In her hair the sunbeams nest,And in her eyes the violets blow,While in the summer of her breastThe songbird thoughts flit to and fro.—ETHEL M. KELLEY.

In her hair the sunbeams nest,

And in her eyes the violets blow,

While in the summer of her breast

The songbird thoughts flit to and fro.

—ETHEL M. KELLEY.

Violets steeped in dreamy odors,Humble as the Mother mild,Blue as were her eyes when watchingO’er her sleeping child.—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

Violets steeped in dreamy odors,

Humble as the Mother mild,

Blue as were her eyes when watching

O’er her sleeping child.

—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

O Mother Nature, kind to every childBlessed with the gift of speech, the gift of grace,Teach thou the modest violet, shy and wild,To look with trustfulness into my face.—ISAAC B. CHOATE.

O Mother Nature, kind to every child

Blessed with the gift of speech, the gift of grace,

Teach thou the modest violet, shy and wild,

To look with trustfulness into my face.

—ISAAC B. CHOATE.

In Farsistan the violet spreadsIts leaves to the rival sky.—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

In Farsistan the violet spreads

Its leaves to the rival sky.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

My love, whose lips are softer farThan drowsy poppy petals are,And sweeter than the violet.—ANDREW LANG.

My love, whose lips are softer far

Than drowsy poppy petals are,

And sweeter than the violet.

—ANDREW LANG.

From wintry days blue violets shrinkFrom wintry lives blue eyes will turn.—HARRISON ROBERTSON.

From wintry days blue violets shrink

From wintry lives blue eyes will turn.

—HARRISON ROBERTSON.

Her eyes be like the violetsAblow in Sudbury lane;When she doth smile, her face is sweetAs blossoms after rain.—LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.

Her eyes be like the violets

Ablow in Sudbury lane;

When she doth smile, her face is sweet

As blossoms after rain.

—LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.

Through jocund reel, or measured treadOf stately minuet,Like fairy vision shone the bloomOf rose and violet,As, hand in hand with Washington,The hero of the day,The smiling face and nymph-like graceOf Nancy led the way.—ZITELLA COCKE.

Through jocund reel, or measured tread

Of stately minuet,

Like fairy vision shone the bloom

Of rose and violet,

As, hand in hand with Washington,

The hero of the day,

The smiling face and nymph-like grace

Of Nancy led the way.

—ZITELLA COCKE.

You violets that first appear,By your pure purple mantles knownLike the proud virgins of the year,As if the spring were all your own,—What are you when the Rose is blown?—SIR HENRY WOTTON.

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known

Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own,—

What are you when the Rose is blown?

—SIR HENRY WOTTON.

Rock-gnawing lichens that forerun the feetOf violets.—JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE.

Rock-gnawing lichens that forerun the feet

Of violets.

—JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE.

True Brahmin, in the meadows wet,Expound the Vedas of the violet!—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

True Brahmin, in the meadows wet,

Expound the Vedas of the violet!

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Soon again shall music swell the breeze;Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the treesVestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sungAnd violets scattered round; and old and youngIn every cottage porch with garlands green,Stand still to gaze, and gazing, bless the scene;While, her dark eyes declining, by his side,Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride.—SAMUEL ROGERS.

Soon again shall music swell the breeze;

Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees

Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung

And violets scattered round; and old and young

In every cottage porch with garlands green,

Stand still to gaze, and gazing, bless the scene;

While, her dark eyes declining, by his side,

Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride.

—SAMUEL ROGERS.

Der Mai ist da mit seinen goldnen LichternUnd seinen Lüften und gewürzten Düften,Und freundlich lockt er mit den weissen Blüthen,Und grusst aus tausend blauen Veilchenaugen.—HEINRICH HEINE.

Der Mai ist da mit seinen goldnen Lichtern

Und seinen Lüften und gewürzten Düften,

Und freundlich lockt er mit den weissen Blüthen,

Und grusst aus tausend blauen Veilchenaugen.

—HEINRICH HEINE.

I only knowThat she was very true and good:The queenliest lily cannot matchThe shy, sweet violet of the wood.—WEATHERLY.

I only know

That she was very true and good:

The queenliest lily cannot match

The shy, sweet violet of the wood.

—WEATHERLY.

Her bloom the rose outvies,The lily dares no plea,The violet’s glory dies,No flower so sweet can be;When love is in her eyesWhat need of spring for me?—ANNA MARIA FAY.

Her bloom the rose outvies,

The lily dares no plea,

The violet’s glory dies,

No flower so sweet can be;

When love is in her eyes

What need of spring for me?

—ANNA MARIA FAY.

Who is there can sing of a more divine thingThan the edge of the woods in the edge of the spring,Ere the violets peep, while hepaticas sleep,And still in the hollows the snow-drifts lie deep?—MILDRED G. PHILLIPS.

Who is there can sing of a more divine thing

Than the edge of the woods in the edge of the spring,

Ere the violets peep, while hepaticas sleep,

And still in the hollows the snow-drifts lie deep?

—MILDRED G. PHILLIPS.

The erthe was ful softe and swete.Through moysture of the welle weteSprong up the sote grene, grene gras,As fayre, as thycke, as myster was.But moche amended it the placeThat therthe was of such a graceThat it of floures hath plente,That both in somer and wynter be.There sprange the vyolet al newe,And fresshe pervynke ryche of hewe,And floures yelowe, white and rede;Such plente grewe there never in mede.Ful gaye was al the grounde, and queynt,And poudred, as men had it peynt,With many a freshe and sondry floureThat casten up ful good savoure.—GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

The erthe was ful softe and swete.

Through moysture of the welle wete

Sprong up the sote grene, grene gras,

As fayre, as thycke, as myster was.

But moche amended it the place

That therthe was of such a grace

That it of floures hath plente,

That both in somer and wynter be.

There sprange the vyolet al newe,

And fresshe pervynke ryche of hewe,

And floures yelowe, white and rede;

Such plente grewe there never in mede.

Ful gaye was al the grounde, and queynt,

And poudred, as men had it peynt,

With many a freshe and sondry floure

That casten up ful good savoure.

—GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

Low lilies press about thy feetWith violets changing kisses sweet.—JANE AUSTIN.

Low lilies press about thy feet

With violets changing kisses sweet.

—JANE AUSTIN.

Come up, come up, O soft spring airs,Come from your silver shining seas,Where all day long you toss the waveAbout the low and palm-plumed keys!For here the violet in the woodThrills with the fulness you shall take,And wrapped away from life and loveThe wild rose dreams, and fain would wake.—HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

Come up, come up, O soft spring airs,Come from your silver shining seas,Where all day long you toss the waveAbout the low and palm-plumed keys!

Come up, come up, O soft spring airs,

Come from your silver shining seas,

Where all day long you toss the wave

About the low and palm-plumed keys!

For here the violet in the woodThrills with the fulness you shall take,And wrapped away from life and loveThe wild rose dreams, and fain would wake.—HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

For here the violet in the wood

Thrills with the fulness you shall take,

And wrapped away from life and love

The wild rose dreams, and fain would wake.

—HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

CHAPTER THREE

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

Hear the rain whisper,

“Dear violet, come.”

—LUCY LARCOM.

The brown buds thicken on the trees,Unbound, the free streams sing,As March leads forth, across the leas,The wild and windy spring.Where in the fields the melted snowLeaves hollows warm and wet,Ere many days will sweetly blowThe first blue violet.—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

The brown buds thicken on the trees,Unbound, the free streams sing,As March leads forth, across the leas,The wild and windy spring.

The brown buds thicken on the trees,

Unbound, the free streams sing,

As March leads forth, across the leas,

The wild and windy spring.

Where in the fields the melted snowLeaves hollows warm and wet,Ere many days will sweetly blowThe first blue violet.—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Where in the fields the melted snow

Leaves hollows warm and wet,

Ere many days will sweetly blow

The first blue violet.

—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Along the wood-paths, warm and wet,Springs up the frail wood-violet.—JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON.

Along the wood-paths, warm and wet,

Springs up the frail wood-violet.

—JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON.

The wildWinds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piledAt feet of writhing trees. The violets raiseTheir heads without affright, without amaze,And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child.—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

The wild

Winds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piled

At feet of writhing trees. The violets raise

Their heads without affright, without amaze,

And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child.

—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

Violet is for faithfulness,Which in me shall abide.—ANONYMOUS.

Violet is for faithfulness,

Which in me shall abide.

—ANONYMOUS.

Such sweet prophetic gladness as we feelWhen first we find beneath the bare spring hillsSo lately circled by the whirling snows,The crocus peeping from the withered leaves;When first we see the lingering day of flowersDawning in violets blue.—GRACE GREENWOOD.

Such sweet prophetic gladness as we feel

When first we find beneath the bare spring hills

So lately circled by the whirling snows,

The crocus peeping from the withered leaves;

When first we see the lingering day of flowers

Dawning in violets blue.

—GRACE GREENWOOD.

The violet varies from the lily as farAs oak from elm.—ALFRED TENNYSON.

The violet varies from the lily as far

As oak from elm.

—ALFRED TENNYSON.

Some wear the lily’s stainless whiteAnd some the rose of passion,And some the violet’s heavenly blue,But each in its own fashion.—HENRY VAN DYKE.

Some wear the lily’s stainless white

And some the rose of passion,

And some the violet’s heavenly blue,

But each in its own fashion.

—HENRY VAN DYKE.

Beauty clear and fairWhere the airRather like a perfume dwells;Where the violet and the roseTheir blue veins and blush discloseAnd come to honor nothing else.—SAMUEL FLETCHER.

Beauty clear and fair

Where the air

Rather like a perfume dwells;

Where the violet and the rose

Their blue veins and blush disclose

And come to honor nothing else.

—SAMUEL FLETCHER.

No tree unfolds its timid bud,Chill pours the hillside’s chilling flood,The tuneless forest all is dumb—Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come?—GOODRICH.

No tree unfolds its timid bud,

Chill pours the hillside’s chilling flood,

The tuneless forest all is dumb—

Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come?

—GOODRICH.

All flowers died when Eve left Paradise,And all the world was flowerless for a while,Until a little child was laid in earth;Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes,And from its lips rose-petals for its smile.—MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN.

All flowers died when Eve left Paradise,

And all the world was flowerless for a while,

Until a little child was laid in earth;

Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes,

And from its lips rose-petals for its smile.

—MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN.

Sweet and sad, like a white dove’s note,Strange voices wakened my soul to glee,And soft scents strayed from the violet’s throat.—BERNARD WELLER.

Sweet and sad, like a white dove’s note,

Strange voices wakened my soul to glee,

And soft scents strayed from the violet’s throat.

—BERNARD WELLER.

When the rain beats and March winds blow,We should be glad if we could knowHow, not so very far away,There shineth a serener dayWhere birds are blithe, and happy children passTo gather violets among the grass.—EMILY S. OAKEY.

When the rain beats and March winds blow,

We should be glad if we could know

How, not so very far away,

There shineth a serener day

Where birds are blithe, and happy children pass

To gather violets among the grass.

—EMILY S. OAKEY.

Like a violet, like a lark,Like the dawn that kills the dark,Like a dew-drop, trembling, clinging,Is the poet’s first sweet singing.—RICHARD WATSON GILDER.

Like a violet, like a lark,

Like the dawn that kills the dark,

Like a dew-drop, trembling, clinging,

Is the poet’s first sweet singing.

—RICHARD WATSON GILDER.

Earth folds dark blankets round the violet blue.—AUSTIN DOBSON.

Earth folds dark blankets round the violet blue.

—AUSTIN DOBSON.

Her mild eyes were innocent of illAs violets in sheltered nooks enshrined.—CARRYL.

Her mild eyes were innocent of ill

As violets in sheltered nooks enshrined.

—CARRYL.

O violets, who never fret, nor say, “I won’t!” “I will!”Who only live to do your best His wishes to fulfil,Teach us your sweet obedience.—CELIA THAXTER.

O violets, who never fret, nor say, “I won’t!” “I will!”

Who only live to do your best His wishes to fulfil,

Teach us your sweet obedience.

—CELIA THAXTER.

When beechen buds begin to swell,And woods the bluebird’s warble know,The yellow violet’s modest bellPeeps from the last year’s leaves below.—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

When beechen buds begin to swell,

And woods the bluebird’s warble know,

The yellow violet’s modest bell

Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.

—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

I hold thy violets against my faceAnd deeply breathe the haunting purple scentThat fills my weary heart with sweet contentAnd lays upon my soul a chrismal grace;The air around me for a little spaceIs heavy with the fragrance they have lent,And every passing wind that heavenward wentHas held thy blossoms in a close embrace.—MYRTLE REED.

I hold thy violets against my face

And deeply breathe the haunting purple scent

That fills my weary heart with sweet content

And lays upon my soul a chrismal grace;

The air around me for a little space

Is heavy with the fragrance they have lent,

And every passing wind that heavenward went

Has held thy blossoms in a close embrace.

—MYRTLE REED.

’Twas when the spring was coming, when the snowHad melted, and fresh winds began to blow,And girls were selling violets in the town.—ROBERT BUCHANAN.

’Twas when the spring was coming, when the snow

Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow,

And girls were selling violets in the town.

—ROBERT BUCHANAN.

My house is small and low;But with pictures such as these,—Of the sunset, and the rowOf illuminated trees,And the heifer as she drinksFrom the field of meadowed ground,With the violets and the pinksFor a border all around,—Let me never, foolish, prayFor a vision wider spread,But, contented, only say,Give me, Lord, my daily bread.—ALICE CARY.

My house is small and low;

But with pictures such as these,—

Of the sunset, and the row

Of illuminated trees,

And the heifer as she drinks

From the field of meadowed ground,

With the violets and the pinks

For a border all around,—

Let me never, foolish, pray

For a vision wider spread,

But, contented, only say,

Give me, Lord, my daily bread.

—ALICE CARY.

How can our fancies help but goOut from this realm of mist and rain,Out from this realm of sleet and snow,When the first southern violets blow?—THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

How can our fancies help but go

Out from this realm of mist and rain,

Out from this realm of sleet and snow,

When the first southern violets blow?

—THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

But one short week ago the trees were bare,And winds were keen, and violets pinched with frost;Today the spring is in the air.—JOHN TODHUNTER.

But one short week ago the trees were bare,

And winds were keen, and violets pinched with frost;

Today the spring is in the air.

—JOHN TODHUNTER.

Are there violets in the sod,Crocuses beneath the clod?When will Boreas give us peace?Or has Winter signed a leaseFor another month of frost,Leaving Spring to pay the cost?For it seems he still is king,Though ’tis spring.—CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.

Are there violets in the sod,

Crocuses beneath the clod?

When will Boreas give us peace?

Or has Winter signed a lease

For another month of frost,

Leaving Spring to pay the cost?

For it seems he still is king,

Though ’tis spring.

—CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.

See, the violets call from out the grasses,Look, the purple answers from the ground;Azure melts and to that warbler passes,Sudden, a sky-fleck on the fences found!—CHARLES DE KAY.

See, the violets call from out the grasses,

Look, the purple answers from the ground;

Azure melts and to that warbler passes,

Sudden, a sky-fleck on the fences found!

—CHARLES DE KAY.

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