CHAPTER TWO
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 violets
Stealing and giving odor.
—WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
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 petticoats
From out the morning dew.
—ALICE CARY.
The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly
As in the air of her native East.
—WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
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.
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 unseen
Ravish the enraptured air
With sweetness, dewy, fresh and fair!
—ANONYMOUS.
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 content
And pinks stood proud and high.
—ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
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 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 watching
O’er her sleeping child.
—ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
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 spreads
Its leaves to the rival sky.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
My love, whose lips are softer far
Than drowsy poppy petals are,
And sweeter than the violet.
—ANDREW LANG.
From wintry days blue violets shrink
From wintry lives blue eyes will turn.
—HARRISON ROBERTSON.
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 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 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 feet
Of violets.
—JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE.
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 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 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 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 eyes
What need of spring for me?
—ANNA MARIA FAY.
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 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 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 wave
About the low and palm-plumed keys!
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.