Climb up dazzling shafts of dazzling light;
And on cowslips fall, in golden play,
Shadows of the swallows on their way.
—MRS. WHITON-STONE.
One loves a baby face, with violets there,
Violets instead of laurel in the hair,
As these were all the little locks could bear.
—ROBERT BROWNING.
The sea is growing summer blue,
But fairer, sweeter than the smiling sky,