What sense of joy it is that thrills me so
Whene’er I see blue violets in the grass.
—ISAAC B. CHOATE.
Here eglantine embalmed the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale, and violet flower,
Found in each cliff a narrow bower.
—SIR WALTER SCOTT.
It trembled off the keys,—a parting kiss
So sweet,—the angel slept upon his sword