CHAPTER FIVE
Up from the sweet South comes the lingering May,
Sets the first wind-flower trembling on its stem;
Scatters her violets with lavish hands,
White, blue and amber.
—CELIA THAXTER.
The vales shall laugh in flowers, the woods
Grow misty-green with leafing buds,
And violets and wind-flowers sway
Against the throbbing heart of May.
—JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
When springtime comes,
Primrose and violet haunt the mossy bank.
—HENRY G. HEWLETT.
Rosy and white on the wanton breeze
The petals fall from the apple-trees,
And under the hedge where the shade lies wet
Are children, picking the violet.
—F. W. BOURDILLON.
The same sweet sounds are in my ear
My early childhood loved to hear.
The violet there, in soft May dew,
Comes up, as modest and as true.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Farewell to thee, France! but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then—
The violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys,
Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again.
—LORD BYRON.
Where the rose doth wear her blushes
Like a garment, and the fair
And modest violets sit together,
Weaving, in mild May weather,
Purples out of dew and air
Fit for any queen to wear.
—ALICE CARY.
Hear the rain whisper,
“Dear violet, come!”
—LUCY LARCOM.
On every sunny hillock spread,
The pale primrose lifts her head;
Rich with sweets, the western gale
Sweeps along the cowslip’d dale;
Every bank, with violets gay,
Smiles to welcome in the May.
—ROBERT SOUTHEY.
The air was soft and fresh and sweet;
The slopes in spring’s new verdure lay,
And wet with dew-drops at my feet
Bloomed the young violets of May.
—JOHN HOWARD BRYANT.
In each hedgerow spring must hasten
Cowslips sweet to set;
And under every leaf, in shadow
Hide a violet.
—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
The buds of April had burst into bloom on the willow and maple,
Fresh with dew was the sod, with dim blue violets sprinkled.
—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.
The dream of winter broken,
Behold her, blue and dear,
Shy Violet, sure token
That April’s here!
—FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.
Not the first violet on a woodland lea
Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she.
—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
No more shall meads be decked with flowers,
Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers,
Nor greenest buds on branches spring,
Nor warbling birds delight to sing,
Nor April violets paint the grove,
If I forsake my Celia’s love.
—THOMAS CAREW.
And O, and O,
The daisies blow,
And the primroses are wakened;
And the violets white
Sit in silver light,
And the green buds are long in the spike end.
—OLD ENGLISH SONG.
A violet that nestles cheek to the mellowed ground;
The humming of a happy brook about its daily round;
The woody breath of pines; the smell of loosening sods;
Such simple links of being,—such common things of God’s.
—ELLA M. BAKER.
Merry, ever-merry May!
Made of sunbeams, shade and showers,
Bursting buds and breathing flowers!
Dripping locked and rosy-vested,
Violet slippered, rainbow crested.
—WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.
There were banks of purple violet,
And arbutus, first whisper of the May.
—FRANCES L. MACE.
Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red,
From thee the violet steals its breath in May.
—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet’s breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity;
Beauty through my senses stole,—
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Now the tender, sweet arbutus
Trails her blossom-clustered vines,
And the many-figured cinquefoil
In the shady hollow twines;
Here, behind this crumbled tree-trunk,
With the cooling showers wet,
Fresh and upright, blooms the sunny
Golden-yellow violet.
—DORA READ GOODALE.
Saintly violets, plucked in bosky dell.
—CLINTON SCOLLARD.
Thy feasting tables shall be hills
With daisies spread, and daffadils;
Where thou shalt sit, and red-brest by,
For meat, shall give thee melody.
Ile give thee chaines and carkanets
Of primroses and violets.
—ROBERT HERRICK.
With saucy gesture
Primroses flare,
And roguish violets
Hidden with care.
And whatsoever
There stirs and strives,
The spring’s contented,
It works and thrives.
—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.
White violets, pure violets,
That might be wreathed in coronets
For baby brows of spotless mould,
That no earth shadows overfold;
White winsome things with dovelike wings
That brood in grassy nest,
As thick as stars no tempest mars
With presence of unrest.
—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Look forth, Beloved, through the tender air,
And let thine eyes
The violets be.
—BAYARD TAYLOR.
The violets whisper from the shade
Which their own leaves have made:
“Men scent our fragrance on the air,
Yet take no heed
Of humble lessons we would read.”
—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
The gentle drift
Of odorous distillings in the air,
Daffodils growing on the field’s green breast,
Buds all a-blow, and the enchanted breath
Of violets peeping in the damp hedgerow,
Kindled to being.
—CHRISTINA CATHERINE LIDDELL.
That young May violet to me is dear,
And I visit the silent streamlet near,
To look on the lovely flower.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
The larch has donned its rosy plumes,
And hastes its emerald beads to string:
The warblers now are on the wing,
Across the pathless ocean glooms.
Through tender grass and violet blooms
I move along and gaily sing.
—RICHARD WILTON.
Violets stir and arbutus wakes,
Claytonia’s rosy bells unfold;
Dandelion through the meadow makes
A royal road, with seals of gold.
—HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Dear little violet,
Don’t be afraid!
Lift your blue eyes
From the rock’s mossy shade!
All the birds call for you
Out of the sky:
May is here, waiting,
And so, too, am I.
Come, pretty violet,
Winter’s away:
Come, for without you
May isn’t May.
Now all is beautiful
Under the sky.
May’s here—and violets!
Winter, good-bye!
—LUCY LARCOM.
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace,
Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first,
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue.
—JAMES THOMSON.
While May bedecks the naked trees
With tassels and embroideries,
And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream.
—HENRY VAN DYKE.
The country ever has a lagging spring,
Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
And in the meadows soft, on either hand,
Blossomed white parsley and the violet.
—HOMER.
Welcome, maids of honor,
You do bring
In the Spring,
And wait upon her.
She has virgins many
Fresh and fair,
Yet you are
More sweet than any.
Ye are the maiden posies
And so graced
To be placed
’Fore damask roses.
—ROBERT HERRICK.
Tute le barche parte via sta note,
E quela del mio ben doman de note;
Tute le barche cargarà de tole,
E quela del mio ben de rose e viole.
—VENETIAN SONG.
CHAPTER SIX
Better to smell the violet cool,
Than sip the glowing wine.
—GEORGE MACDONALD.