| MARCH VIOLETS. This busy, dusty wind that blows Along the cruel streets, Right to the heart of violets goes, And robs them of their sweets. And as along the cruel street The keen wind robs the flowers, So the cold kindness that we meet Blights these poor hearts of ours. |
| But if you tend with warmth, you know, Your violets, they give Sweet scent again, as if to show How glad they are to live. We think if some one loved us too Our hearts would break to prove By all that we could say or do, How glad we were to love! E. Nesbit. |
| Dream footsteps wandering past us in our sleep, A restless presence stirring with the light, |
The cry of waters where the snow was white,
A violet’s whisper where dead leaves lay deep;
The dim wood’s music makes a sudden leap,
Broken notes, blending in a wild delight,