The Violet Book Part 18

Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath.

--WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

Could you not come when woods are green?

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 And violets for her wreath, And a whisper at last of sweet response Stole on her perfumed breath.

--FRANCES L. MACE.

Come not, O sweet days, Out of yon cloudless blue, Ghosts of so many dear remembered Mays, With faces like dead lovers, who died true.

Come not, lest we go seek with eyes all wet, Primrose and violet, Forgetting that they lie Deep in the mould till winter has gone by.

--DINAH MARIA MULOCH CRAIK.

Blighting and blowing--blighting and blowing-- And the stones of the rivulet silent lie, And the winds in the fading woodlands cry, And the birds in the clouds are going; And the dandelion hides his gold, And their little blue tents the violets fold, And the air is gray with snowing: So life keeps coming and going.

--ALICE CARY.

Dear chance it were in some rough wood-G.o.d's lair

To sink o'erdrowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blew Around my head and feet silently there, Till spring's glad choir adown the valley pealed And violets trembled in the morning dew.

--EDWARD DOWDEN.

The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill, The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill, The breaths that noon exhales are faint and chill.

Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew, Where to spring winds their soft eyes open flew; Safely they sleep the churlish winter through.

Though all life's portals are indiced with woe, And frozen pearls are all the world can show, Feel! Nature's breath is warm beneath the snow!

--ANONYMOUS.

You'll look at least on love's remains, A grave's one violet?

Your look?--that pays a thousand pains.

What's death? You'll love me yet!

--ROBERT BROWNING.

Out of every shadowy nook Spirit faces seem to look, Some with smiling eyes, and some With a sad entreaty dumb; He who shepherded his sheep On the wild Sicilian steep, He above whose grave are set Sprays of Roman violet; Poets, sages,--all who wrought In the crucible of thought.

--CLINTON SCOLLARD.

A fair little girl sat under a tree Sewing as long as her eyes could see; Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, "Dear work, good night, good night!"

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; The violets curtsied and went to bed; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.

--RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep; I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets grow.

--WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

Where the fern in gladness dances On the banks of dimpled burns, Where the streamlet's bright wave glances When the spring returns; White as winter's spotless drift There our faces we uplift.

Still we see the stars above us, Still we trust, because they love us-- Are they flowers in the sky, Violets that have learned to fly?

We believe, and hope, and trust, Know that He who made is just, And He never will forsake us While we're white and pure of heart.

Sister, maiden Sister, take us-- One of us thou art!

--WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.

O violets, sweet blue eyes of the spring!

--DEXTER SMITH.

Here's the violet's modest blue, That 'neath hawthorns hides from view.

While they choose each lovely spot, The sun disdains them not; So I've brought the flowers to plead And win a smile from thee.

--JOHN CLARE.

Last night I found the violets You sent me once across the sea; From gardens that the winter frets, In summer lands they came to me.

Still fragrant of the English earth, Still hurried from the frozen dew, To me they spoke of Christmas mirth, They spoke of England, spoke of you.

--ANDREW LANG.

Darling, walk with me this morn; Let your brown tresses drink its sheen; These violets, within them worn, Of floral fays shall make you queen.

--EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

O faint, delicious, springtime violet!

Thine odor, like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free.

--WILLIAM W. STORY.

The violet, Spring's little infant, stands Girt in thy purple swaddling-bands; On the fair tulip thou dost dote, Thou cloth'st it in a gay and party-colored coat.

--ABRAHAM COWLEY.

Under the larch with its ta.s.sels wet, While the early sunbeams lingered yet, In the rosy dawn my love I met.