The Violet Book Part 3

Der Mai ist da mit seinen goldnen Lichtern Und seinen Luften und gewurzten Duften, Und freundlich lockt er mit den weissen Bluthen, Und grusst aus tausend blauen Veilchenaugen.

--HEINRICH HEINE.

I only know That she was very true and good: The queenliest lily cannot match The shy, sweet violet of the wood.

--WEATHERLY.

Her bloom the rose outvies, The lily dares no plea, The violet's glory dies, No flower so sweet can be; When love is in her eyes What need of spring for me?

--ANNA MARIA FAY.

Who is there can sing of a more divine thing Than the edge of the woods in the edge of the spring, Ere the violets peep, while hepaticas sleep, And still in the hollows the snow-drifts lie deep?

--MILDRED G. PHILLIPS.

The erthe was ful softe and swete.

Through moysture of the welle wete Sp.r.o.ng up the sote grene, grene gras, As fayre, as thycke, as myster was.

But moche amended it the place That therthe was of such a grace That it of floures hath plente, That both in somer and wynter be.

There sprange the vyolet al newe, And fresshe pervynke ryche of hewe, And floures yelowe, white and rede; Such plente grewe there never in mede.

Ful gaye was al the grounde, and queynt, And poudred, as men had it peynt, With many a freshe and sondry floure That casten up ful good savoure.

--GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

Low lilies press about thy feet With violets changing kisses sweet.

--JANE AUSTIN.

Come up, come up, O soft spring airs, Come from your silver shining seas, Where all day long you toss the wave About the low and palm-plumed keys!

For here the violet in the wood Thrills with the fulness you shall take, And wrapped away from life and love The wild rose dreams, and fain would wake.

--HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

CHAPTER THREE

Hear the rain whisper, "Dear violet, come."

--LUCY LARCOM.

CHAPTER THREE

The brown buds thicken on the trees, Unbound, the free streams sing, As March leads forth, across the leas, The wild and windy spring.

Where in the fields the melted snow Leaves hollows warm and wet, Ere many days will sweetly blow The first blue violet.

--ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Along the wood-paths, warm and wet, Springs up the frail wood-violet.

--JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON.

The wild Winds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piled At feet of writhing trees. The violets raise Their heads without affright, without amaze, And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child.

--HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

Violet is for faithfulness, Which in me shall abide.

--ANONYMOUS.

Such sweet prophetic gladness as we feel When first we find beneath the bare spring hills So lately circled by the whirling snows, The crocus peeping from the withered leaves; When first we see the lingering day of flowers Dawning in violets blue.

--GRACE GREENWOOD.

The violet varies from the lily as far As oak from elm.

--ALFRED TENNYSON.

Some wear the lily's stainless white And some the rose of pa.s.sion, And some the violet's heavenly blue, But each in its own fashion.

--HENRY VAN d.y.k.e.

Beauty clear and fair Where the air Rather like a perfume dwells; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins and blush disclose And come to honor nothing else.

--SAMUEL FLETCHER.

No tree unfolds its timid bud, Chill pours the hillside's chilling flood, The tuneless forest all is dumb-- Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come?

--GOODRICH.

All flowers died when Eve left Paradise, And all the world was flowerless for a while, Until a little child was laid in earth; Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes, And from its lips rose-petals for its smile.

--MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN.

Sweet and sad, like a white dove's note, Strange voices wakened my soul to glee, And soft scents strayed from the violet's throat.

--BERNARD WELLER.

When the rain beats and March winds blow, We should be glad if we could know How, not so very far away, There shineth a serener day Where birds are blithe, and happy children pa.s.s To gather violets among the gra.s.s.

--EMILY S. OAKEY.

Like a violet, like a lark, Like the dawn that kills the dark, Like a dew-drop, trembling, clinging, Is the poet's first sweet singing.

--RICHARD WATSON GILDER.