CHAPTER SEVEN

Soft-throated South, breathing of summer’s ease, Sweet breath, whereof the violet’s life is made! —GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

I heard the laughter of a brook, A tiny brook, that babbled through The fields and told the tales it took Of bird and reed and water-thing; And stooping low I saw a gleam Of violets that nodded to Their gay reflection in the stream. —MARY F. FAXON.

More shy than the shy violet Hiding when the wind doth pass. —ELLEN M. CORTISSOZ.

The ferns bend low, the grasses lean, As doing homage to a queen, The fairest queens that ever smiled On cavalier, or king beguiled: Oh, sweet and tender violets! —M. D. TOLMAN.

I go to the river there below Where in bunches the violets grow, And sun and shadow meet. —HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Beneath Peep the blue violets out of black loam. —RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

The violet varies from the lily as far As oak from elm. —ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

Lover of each gracious thing Which makes glad the summer-tide, From the daisies clustering And the violets, purple-eyed, To those shy and hidden blooms Which in forest coverts stay. —ANONYMOUS.

I thread the rustling ranks, that hide Their misty violet treasure. —BAYARD TAYLOR.

But when the green world buds to blossoming, Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth, Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth and hope: Or if a later, sadder love be born, Let this not look for grace beyond its scope, But give itself. —CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

And now, when summer south-winds blow And brier and harebell bloom again, I tread the pleasant paths we trod, I see the violet-sprinkled sod Whereon she leaned. —JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Sisters, ere the moon is set, Twine the white, white violet, While the dews are on it yet, With the myriad-starrèd mignonette. —FORCEYTHE WILSON.

Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare The summer to its rose may bring; Far sweeter to the wooing air The hidden violet of the spring. —BAYARD TAYLOR.

And near the snow-drop’s tender white and green, The violet in its screen. —HENRY TIMROD.

Pale marguerites, that swayed with dainty grace To every breeze, the violet’s sweet, shy face, And heart’sease, wonder-eyed. —J. TORREY CAPEN.

Oh, those gardens dear and far, Where the wild wind-fairies are! Though we see not, we can hearken To them when the spring skies darken, Singing clearly, singing purely, Songs of far-off Elfland surely, And they pluck the wild wind posies, Lilies, violets and roses. —PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

Miss Violet displays no hood, Nor garbs herself as violets should— She sports a witching hat; Nor is she found in dim retreat, But often on the crowded street Her boots go pit-a-pat. —SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

And give my simple thought the skill to know What interchanging hints between us pass; What sense of joy it is that thrills me so Whene’er I see blue violets in the grass. —ISAAC B. CHOATE.

Here eglantine embalmed the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale, and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower. —SIR WALTER SCOTT.

It trembled off the keys,—a parting kiss So sweet,—the angel slept upon his sword As through the gate of Paradise we swept,— Partakers of creation’s primal bliss! —The air was heavy with the breath Of violets and love till death— Forgetful of eternal banishment, Deep down the dusk of passion-haunted ways, Lost in the dreaming alchemies of tone, Drenched in the dew no other wings frequent, —Our thirsting hearts drank in the breath Of violets and love in death— There was no world, no flesh, no boundary line— Spirit to spirit—chord and dissonance, Beyond the jealousy of space or time His life in one low cry broke over mine! —The waking angel drew a shuddering breath Of violets and love and death. —MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON.

Bay leaves between And primroses green Embellish the sweet violet. —EDMUND SPENSER.

Better to smell the violet cool Than sip the glowing wine; Better to hark a hidden brook Than watch a diamond shine. —GEORGE MACDONALD.

Upon the water’s velvet edge The purple blossoms breathe delight, Close nestled to the grassy sedge As sweet as dawn, as dark as night. O brook and branches, far away, My heart keeps time with you today! “The violets—the violets!” —FRANCES L. MACE.

Call the crowfoot and the crocus, Call the pale anemone, Call the violet and the daisy, Clothed with careful modesty. —PHŒBE CARY.

The mosses are wet Under chestnut and thorn With blossoms new-born Of dim violet. —JOHN A. SYMONDS.

Give me only a bud from the trees Or a blade of grass in morning dew, Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, I could look on it forever. —SYDNEY DOBELL.

How could I forget To beg of thee, dear violet! Some of thy modesty, That blossoms here as well, unseen, As if before the world thou’dst been, O give to strengthen me. —JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

When daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, Do paint the meadows with delight. —WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

An emerald robe o’er all the fields is drawn; Here are cowslips, there the violets appear; The rill’s low laughter, children’s joyous words, The ploughman’s chorus, with the song of birds, In mingled cadences, are heard afar and near. —JOSIAH RICE TAYLOR.

All the world is blooming, wherefore sigh? Violets amid the grasses lie, And the wild bees with their girdles bright Climb up dazzling shafts of dazzling light; And on cowslips fall, in golden play, Shadows of the swallows on their way. —MRS. WHITON-STONE.

One loves a baby face, with violets there, Violets instead of laurel in the hair, As these were all the little locks could bear. —ROBERT BROWNING.

The sea is growing summer blue, But fairer, sweeter than the smiling sky, Or bashful violet with tender eye, Is she whose love for me will never die,— I love you, darling, only you! —ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

“Use! Use! Use!” I cried impatiently;—“nothing but use! As if God never made a violet, Or hung a harebell!” —J. G. HOLLAND.

The pride of every grove I chose, The violet sweet and lily fair, The dappled pink and blushing rose, To deck my charming Chloe’s hair. —MATTHEW PRIOR.

’Twas a child In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed, Something to waken wonder. Never sky In noontide depth, or softly breaking dawn— Never the dew in new-born violet’s cup, Lay so entranced in purity. —NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.

Violets, faint with love’s perfume, Lie hid in tall green grasses. —MARY E. BLAKE.