CHAPTER EIGHT
The violet, she is faint with heat—
The lily is all forlorn;
My love, arise, with thy dewy eyes,
Arise, and be their morn!
—ALICE CARY.
Grow greener, grass, where the river flows—
Her feet have pressed you;
Blow fresher, violet! lily! rose!
Her eyes have blessed you.
—CHARLES MACKAY.
Violets make the airs that pass
Telltales of their fragrant slope.
—BAYARD TAYLOR.
Sich a rainy season
A-comin’ by-an’-by;
But Sun will play de hide-an’-seek
Yander in the sky.
Lily’ll look so lonesome—
Violet hide his eye;
But de skies will do yo’ weepin’,
So, honey, don’t you cry!
W’en der rain is over,
Violet dress in blue;
Red rose say: “I sweet terday—
An’ here’s a kiss fer you!”
—FRANK L. STANTON.
Shadows, like the violets tangled,
Like the soft light, softly mingled.
—ALICE CARY.
When violets pranked the turf with blue,
And morning filled their cups with dew.
—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Came one by one the seasons, meetly drest.
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First Spring—upon whose head a wreath was set
Of wind-flowers and the yellow violet—
Advanced. Then Summer led his loveliest
Of months, one ever to the minstrel dear
(Her sweet eyes dewy wet),
June, and her sisters, whose brown hands entwine
The brier-rose and the bee-haunted columbine.
—EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
Oh, not more sweet the tears
Of the dewy eve on the violet shed,
Than the dews of age on the hoary head
When it enters the eve of years.
—ANONYMOUS.
’Twas violet time when he and she
Went roaming the meadows wide and free.
A happy lad and lass were they,
Their hearts, their hopes, their voices gay,—
She seventeen, he twenty-three.
The skies were calm as a sleeping sea,
And the hills and streams and the mossy lea
A part of the wooing seemed to be;
’Twas violet time.
Years fled, and weak and old grew he;
His form was bent like a snow-bowed tree,
His hair was white and hers was gray,
But their souls were young as a morn in May,
And in their souls—sweet mystery!—
’Twas violet time!
—ERNEST WARBURTON SHURTLEFF.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye—
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky,
She lived.
—WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green,
Its fringing violets blossom yet;
The old trees o’er it lean.
—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
The brown pine-needles at our feet
Spread forth until the green is met,
To mingle all their perfume sweet
With trillium and with violet.
—WILLIAM McLELLAN.
Ungarlanded still stand the fair
White ladyes of the wood;
Yet, purple-robed, the violet
Peeps from her gray-green hood.
—ANONYMOUS.
Passing along through the field of wheat
By the hedge where in spring the violets glow,
And the bluebells blossom around our feet.
—CHARLES SAYLE.
Lady violet, blooming meekly
By the brooklet free,
Bending low thy gentle forehead
All his grace to see;
Turn thee from the wooing water—
Whisper soft, I pray,
For the wind might hear my secret—
Does he love me? Say!
—N. C. KETCHUM.
Violets in the hazel copse,
Bluebells in the dingle;
Birds in all the green tree-tops
Joyous songs commingle.
—MARY C. GILLINGTON.
In her face a garden lies:
Violets are her azure eyes;
Just below them there repose
Blushing cheeks of velvet rose;
’Twixt the roses, scorning drouth,
Tulips of her tempting mouth.
In this garden alley may
Only one, the chosen, stray.
Reveling in their radiant hues,
Tasting of their precious dews,
Rich delights he ne’er forgets—
Tulips, roses, violets.
—GEORGE BIRDSEYE.
From over-sea,
Violets, for memories,
I send to thee.
—WILLIAM SHARP.
For thoughts of a sylvan home,
For forest trees gemmed with dew,
For sake of the Giver kind,
Violets, I love you.
—GRACE HIBBARD.
I sometimes dream that when at last
My life is done with fading things,
Again will blossom forth the past
To which my memory fondest clings.
That some fair star has kept for me
Fresh blooming still by brook and tree
The violets—the violets!
—FRANCES L. MACE.
When woods in early green were dressed,
And from the chambers of the west
The warmer breezes, traveling out,
Breathed the new scent of flowers about,
My truant steps from home would stray,
Upon its grassy side to play,
List the brown thrasher’s vernal hymn,
And crop the violet on its brim.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
In shadows cool and dim
I rest at ease from care and cark,
With pinks and violets to mark
My small horizon’s rim.
—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
A shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness, some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face.
—OSCAR WILDE.
How sweet to rest, ere dawns the summer’s heat,
Where violets gaze upward to the sky!
—GUNNISON.
Little streams have flowers a-many,
Beautiful and fair as any,—
Arrowhead with eye of jet,
And the water-violet.
—MARY HOWITT.
Soft-breathed winds, under yon gracious moon,
Doing mild errands for mild violets.
—SIDNEY LANIER.
The violets that skirt the bank
Bend down to thank
The laughing stream with kisses sweet.
—ANONYMOUS.
Poised in a sheeny mist
Of the dust of bloom,
Clasped to the poppy’s breast and kissed,
Baptized in violet perfume
From foot to plume!
—JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON.
CHAPTER NINE
Modest violet, maiden violet,
Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes?
—ALICE CARY.