The Violet Book Part 15

--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

My chill-veined snow-drops,--choicer yet My white or azure violet.

--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

There came a softness in the air And with a throb of longing, ere I knew A hint of violets, a thought of you For whom it was, my heart breathed up a prayer.

--CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE.

The primrose turned a babbling flower Within its sweet recess; I blushed to see its secret bower, And turned her name to bless.

The violets said the eyes were blue, I loved, and did they tell me true?

--JOHN CLARE.

I know, I know where violets blow Upon a sweet hillside, And very bashfully they grow And in the gra.s.ses hide-- It is the fairest field, I trow, In the whole world wide.

--ROBERT LOUIS MUNGER.

O, for the life of a gipsy!

A strong-armed, barefoot girl; And to have the wind for a waiting-maid To keep my hair in curl; To bring me scent of the violet, And the red rose and the pine; And at night to spread my gra.s.sy bed-- Ah! wouldn't it be divine?

--ALICE CARY.

The lillie will not long endure, Nor the snow continue pure: The rose, the violet,--one day See! both these lady-flowers decay: You must fade as well as they.

--ROBERT HERRICK.

Once thy lip, to touch it only, To my soul has sent a thrill Sweeter than the violet lonely Plucked in March-time by the rill.

--JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

Blow, violets, blow!

And tell him, in your blossoming o'er and o'er, How in the places which he used to know His name is still breathed fondly as of yore.

--ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

See hyacinths and violets dim and sweet, And orange-blossoms on their dark green stems.

--WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

The snow-drop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odors, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.

--PERCY BYSSHE Sh.e.l.lEY.

When love in the faint heart trembles, And the eyes with tears are wet, O, tell me what resembles Thee, young Regret?

Violets with dewdrops drooping, Lilies o'erfull of gold, Roses in June rains stooping, That weep for the cold, Are like thee, young Regret.

--GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.

Over the hilltop and down in the meadow-gra.s.s Heaven, like dew, on the waking earth lies; Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets-- Best of it all I find in your eyes.

--WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.

Far back where the April violets grew There smiled, amid crystals of deathless dew, Our first and last Arcadia.

In clear, unbroken melody The brook sings and the birds reply: "The violets--the violets!"

--FRANCES L. MACE.

No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again.

--CHARLOTTE SMITH.

When October dons her crown, And the leaves are turning brown,-- Breathe, sweet children, soft regrets For the vanished violets.

--ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Primrose and cowslip have I gathered here, Anemone and hiding violet, When April sang the spring song of the year.

Now all is changed; the autumn day is wet With clouds blown from the west, and vapors fold Over the dripping woods and vacant wold.

--CHARLES DENYS CONWAY.

She gave me a flower that she wore in her bosom, And violets, not half so blue as her eyes.

--EMILY S. OAKEY.

Poor little Violet, calling through the chill Of this new frost which did her sister slay, In which she must herself, too, pa.s.s away!

Nay, pretty Violet, be not so dismayed; Sleep only on your sisters sweet is laid.

--PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

As I was gathering violets in the snow, Methought how often, when the heart is low, And Nature grieves, The buds of simple faith will meekly blow 'Neath frosted leaves.

--A. E. HAMILTON.

Now cometh Winter, soft snow-wraps to bring, To keep her baby violets warm till spring.

--ANONYMOUS.

Very dark the autumn sky, Dark the clouds that hurried by; Very rough the autumn breeze Shouting rudely to the trees.

Listening, frightened, pale and cold, Through the withered leaves and mould Peered a violet all in dread-- "Where, oh, where is spring?" she said.

Sighed the trees, "Poor little thing!

She may call in vain for spring!"

And the gra.s.ses whispered low, "We must never let her know."

"What's this whispering?" roared the breeze; "Hush! a violet," sobbed the trees, "Thinks it's spring--poor child, we fear She will die if she should hear!"