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.