—THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Violets begin to blush;

Speedwell opens too her eye

And the kingcup wooes the sky.

—EDWARD CAPERN.

It isn’t raining rain to me, but fields of clover bloom,

Where any buccaneering bee can find a bed and room;

A health unto the happy, and a fig for him who frets!

It isn’t raining rain to me, it’s raining violets.

—ANONYMOUS.