Go, modest little violets, and lie upon her breast;

Your eyes will tell her something—perhaps she’ll guess the rest!

—CHARLES HENRY WEBB.

How gentle is the soul that looketh out

From violets sweet through dim, blue, tearful eyes,

That turns a pleading face to look about

And watch the sun’s course through the smiling skies!

—ISAAC BASSETT CHOATE.

Who beheld it? O, the rare surprise

When, like souls upspringing from the sod,