The Violet Book

by Unknown

CHAPTER TEN

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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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 smile

To broaden your kerchiefs blue.

—ALICE CARY.

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 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 yet

My white or azure violet.

—CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

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 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 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-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 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 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 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.

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 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-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 grew

There smiled, amid crystals of deathless dew,

Our first and last Arcadia.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 breeze

Shouting rudely to the trees.

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.”

“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!”

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.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Violet, little violet,

Brave and true and sweet thou art.

—ANONYMOUS.

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