CHAPTER NINE
These fall-time violets seem
Like a dream within a dream.
—ANONYMOUS.
O that I were listening under the olives!
So should I hear behind in the woodland
The peasants talking. Either a woman,
A wrinkled grandame, stands in the sunshine,
Stirs the brown soil in an acre of violets—
Large odorous violets—and answers slowly
A child’s swift babble; or else at noon
The laborers come.
—MARGARET L. WOODS.
The violets meet and disport themselves,
Under the trees, by tens and twelves.
—D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.
Shall I tell you what wonderful fancy
Built up this palace for me?
It was only a little white violet
I found at the root of a tree.
—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
From the field by the river’s brink,
Where violets hid his nest,
Soars high with a canticle of the blest
The jubilant bobolink.
—FRANCES L. MACE.
Open wide the windows—
The green hills are in sight,
Winds are whispering, “Violets!”
And—there’s a daisy white,
And the great sun says, “Good morning!”
And the valleys sing delight.
—ANONYMOUS.
Violets, faint with love’s perfume,
Lie hid in tall green grasses.
—MARY E. BLAKE.
The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near,
And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae clear,
The violets for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear.
—ROBERT BURNS.
The bright-eyed daisy, the violet sweet,
The blushing poppy that nods and trembles
In its scarlet hood among the wheat.
—WILLIAM W. STORY.
In meadows bright with violets
And Spring’s fair children of the sun.
—TRIPP.
Why do you shiver so,
Violet sweet?
Soft is the meadow-grass
Under my feet.
Wrapped in your hood of green,
Violet, why
Peep from your earth-door
So silent and shy?
—LUCY LARCOM.
O day of days! Thy memory
Will never fade, nor pass;
Patches of lowly violets
Were clouding all the grass.
—ALICE CARY.
Go, modest little violets, and lie upon her breast;
Your eyes will tell her something—perhaps she’ll guess the rest!
—CHARLES HENRY WEBB.
How gentle is the soul that looketh out
From violets sweet through dim, blue, tearful eyes,
That turns a pleading face to look about
And watch the sun’s course through the smiling skies!
—ISAAC BASSETT CHOATE.
Who beheld it? O, the rare surprise
When, like souls upspringing from the sod,
Violets unclosed their still blue eyes
In the green fair world of God!
—EMILY S. OAKEY.
Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn,
Blushing into life new-born!
Lend me violets for my hair,
And thy russet robe to wear!
—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
The south wind is like a gentle friend
Parting the hair so softly on my brow.
I know it has been trifling with the rose
And stooping to the violet.
—NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
The flowers we know, they move us so,
Almost to weep we’re fain;
Who heard us say, that fairest day
Last spring, “They’re come again,
Sweet violets”?
—EMILY S. OAKEY.
I can hear these violets’ chorus
To the sky’s benediction above;
And we all together are lying
On the bosom of Infinite Love.
—WILLIAM C. GANNETT.
The modest, lowly violet
In leaves of tender green is set,
So rich she cannot hide from view,
But covers all the bank with blue.
—DORA READ GOODALE.
Here blows the warm red clover,
There peeps the violet blue;
O happy little children!
God made them all for you.
—CELIA THAXTER.
I pressed them to my lips for you,
Ah me! I know your heart forgets
In knowing not, or caring that
I pick thee violets.
—MARY FREDERICK FAXON.
When eve had come, and thicker grew
The shadows all the garden through,
Beside the rose-embowered gate,
Her laughter stilled. To speak, or wait—
Oh, beating heart, what should I do!
Long lashes hid her eyes of blue,
Twin violets befringed with dew.
—SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
I wonder if the violet felt
Your presence when you gently knelt,
And breathed for you its sweetest air
Because you loved yet left it there.
—HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
O, were I yon violet,
On which she is walking!
Or were I yon small bird,
To which she is talking!
—ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
I asked a nodding violet, why
It sadly hung its head.
It told me Cynthia late past by,
Too soon from it that fled.
—MICHAEL DRAYTON.
Compassed all about with roses sweet
And dainty violets from head to feet.
—EDMUND SPENSER.
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that’s gone:
Violets plucked, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again.
—SAMUEL FLETCHER.
On beds of violets blue
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew.
—JOHN MILTON.
Over the river there lieth
A city wondrous fair,
And never the eye of a mortal
Hath looked on the glories there.
The lilies grow by the rivers,
Stately and fair they blow,
And lift their balm to the angels,
In their censer-cup of snow;
And the violets blossom forever
In the haunts where the wild birds sing,
And the fern and the flowers are fragrant
In the balm of eternal spring.
—EBEN E. REXFORD.
CHAPTER TEN
The violets bloom is loveliest,
Oh pretty pets, the violets.
—M. D. TOLMAN.