Could you not come when lambs are seen?
When the primrose laughs from its child-like sleep,
And the violets hide and the bluebells peep?
—ALFRED AUSTIN.
Thy face is like the violet’s
That to the red rose lingers close,
And he who looks at thee forgets
The honeyed sweetness of the rose.
—JOEL BENTON.
He gave her the wildwood roses