The Violet Book Part 9

Blue violets, blithe violets, Who that is human e'er forgets Your brightness and your blithesomeness, Your innocent meek tenderness, That e'er hath stood in budding wood And seen you at his feet, Like rarest elves that deck themselves In fairyhood complete, Though blue as mist the sun has kissed In valleys wild and sweet?

--EMILY S. OAKEY.

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade, In purple's richest pride arrayed, Your errand here fulfil; Go bid the artist's simple stain Your l.u.s.tre imitate in vain, And match your Master's skill.

--ANONYMOUS.

They are the nation of the bees, Born from the breath of flowers.

Low in the violet's breast of blue For treasured food they sink; They know the flowers that hold the dew For their small race to drink.

--ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.

Sweet-brier, leaning on the crag That the lady-fern hides under; Harebells, violets white and blue: Who has sweeter flowers, I wonder?

--LUCY LARCOM.

Violet, delicate, sweet, Down in the deep of the wood, Hid in thy still retreat, Far from the sound of the street, Man and his merciless mood.

--COSMO MONKHOUSE.

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows.

--WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

Under foot the violet, Crocus and hyacinth, with rich inlay, Broidered the ground.

--JOHN MILTON.

In my veins a music as of boughs When the cool aspen-fingers of the rain Feel for the eyelids of the earth in spring.

In every vein quick life; within my soul The meekness of some sweet eternity Forgot; and in my eyes soft violet-thoughts That widen'd in the eye-ball to the light, And peep'd, and trembled chilly back to the soul Like leaves of violets closing.

--ROBERT BUCHANAN.

A little child with wondering, wide blue eyes Shining with ecstasy, yet dimmed with tears, As though a sudden joy strove with her fears Only half conquered, while a sweet surprise Like the first radiant glow of dawning skies In the uplifted, wistful face appears; Her tiny foot advanced, as one who nears The gates of some long-wished-for Paradise,-- With parted lips the timid maiden stands Clothed in her childish robe of spotless white; Close to her bosom, in her little hands, Clasping a knot of violets, all bright With morning dew, and shyly whispering In tones of bird and streamlet: "I am Spring!"

--WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.

Now boys and laughing girls pluck violets And all the dainty wildflowers of the field.

--OVID.

She is so n.o.ble, firm and true, I drink truth from her eyes, As violets gain the heavens' own blue In gazing at the skies.

--JOHN HAY.

The violet in her greenwood bower Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

--SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The lone violet which for love's own sake Its life exhales in pure unconscious good, Some sunless glen a glowing shrine to make, With urn of incense in the solitude.

--FRANCES L. MACE.

The wild rose sends a honeyed breath To woo the bee from neighboring wold; The violet holds its dainty cup To catch the morning's earliest gold.

--W. M. L. JAY.

Her pa.s.sions the shy violet From Hafiz never hides.

Love-longings of the raptured bird The bird to him confides.

--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

They knew me not,--blue flower, blue eyes; She, careless, pa.s.sed me when we met; The tender glance which I would prize Above all things, the violet Received, and I went on my way, Companioned with the cheerless day.

--HARRISON ROBERTSON.

Like some immortal heathen thing, All fresh with bloom, with odor sweet, With brook and bird and breeze in tune, The beautiful bright earth of June Moves to the fullness of her noon, While serving sunbeams round her fling The purple violets as they fleet.

--HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

Run, little rivulet, run!

Sing of the flowers, every one,-- Of the delicate harebell and violet blue; Of the red mountain rosebud, all dripping with dew.

--LUCY LARCOM.

Safe from the storm and the heat, Breathing of beauty and good, Fragrantly, under thy hood, Violet!

--COSMO MONKHOUSE.

O violets, blue-eyed violets!

Scented with sweetest breath, You seem, as I stoop to pluck you, To whisper, "There is no death."

--CAROLINE A. SOULE.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A shadowy nook, where half afraid Of their own loveliness, some violets lie.

--OSCAR WILDE.

CHAPTER SEVEN