Close to her bosom, in her little hands,
Clasping a knot of violets, all bright
With morning dew, and shyly whispering
In tones of bird and streamlet: “I am Spring!”
—WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
Now boys and laughing girls pluck violets
And all the dainty wildflowers of the field.
—OVID.
She is so noble, firm and true,
I drink truth from her eyes,