CHAPTER NINE

These fall-time violets seem Like a dream within a dream. --ANONYMOUS.

O that I were listening under the olives! So should I hear behind in the woodland The peasants talking. Either a woman, A wrinkled grandame, stands in the sunshine, Stirs the brown soil in an acre of violets-- Large odorous violets--and answers slowly A child’s swift babble; or else at noon The laborers come. --MARGARET L. WOODS.

The violets meet and disport themselves, Under the trees, by tens and twelves. --D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.

Shall I tell you what wonderful fancy Built up this palace for me? It was only a little white violet I found at the root of a tree. --ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

From the field by the river’s brink, Where violets hid his nest, Soars high with a canticle of the blest The jubilant bobolink. --FRANCES L. MACE.

Open wide the windows-- The green hills are in sight, Winds are whispering, “Violets!” And--there’s a daisy white, And the great sun says, “Good morning!” And the valleys sing delight. --ANONYMOUS.

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

The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near, And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae clear, The violets for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear. --ROBERT BURNS.

The bright-eyed daisy, the violet sweet, The blushing poppy that nods and trembles In its scarlet hood among the wheat. --WILLIAM W. STORY.

In meadows bright with violets And Spring’s fair children of the sun. --TRIPP.

Why do you shiver so, Violet sweet? Soft is the meadow-grass Under my feet. Wrapped in your hood of green, Violet, why Peep from your earth-door So silent and shy? --LUCY LARCOM.

O day of days! Thy memory Will never fade, nor pass; Patches of lowly violets Were clouding all the grass. --ALICE CARY.

Go, modest little violets, and lie upon her breast; Your eyes will tell her something--perhaps she’ll guess the rest! --CHARLES HENRY WEBB.

How gentle is the soul that looketh out From violets sweet through dim, blue, tearful eyes, That turns a pleading face to look about And watch the sun’s course through the smiling skies! --ISAAC BASSETT CHOATE.

Who beheld it? O, the rare surprise When, like souls upspringing from the sod, Violets unclosed their still blue eyes In the green fair world of God! --EMILY S. OAKEY.

Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn, Blushing into life new-born! Lend me violets for my hair, And thy russet robe to wear! --OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

The south wind is like a gentle friend Parting the hair so softly on my brow. I know it has been trifling with the rose And stooping to the violet. --NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.

The flowers we know, they move us so, Almost to weep we’re fain; Who heard us say, that fairest day Last spring, “They’re come again, Sweet violets”? --EMILY S. OAKEY.

I can hear these violets’ chorus To the sky’s benediction above; And we all together are lying On the bosom of Infinite Love. --WILLIAM C. GANNETT.

The modest, lowly violet In leaves of tender green is set, So rich she cannot hide from view, But covers all the bank with blue. --DORA READ GOODALE.

Here blows the warm red clover, There peeps the violet blue; O happy little children! God made them all for you. --CELIA THAXTER.

I pressed them to my lips for you, Ah me! I know your heart forgets In knowing not, or caring that I pick thee violets. --MARY FREDERICK FAXON.

When eve had come, and thicker grew The shadows all the garden through, Beside the rose-embowered gate, Her laughter stilled. To speak, or wait-- Oh, beating heart, what should I do! Long lashes hid her eyes of blue, Twin violets befringed with dew. --SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

I wonder if the violet felt Your presence when you gently knelt, And breathed for you its sweetest air Because you loved yet left it there. --HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

O, were I yon violet, On which she is walking! Or were I yon small bird, To which she is talking! --ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

I asked a nodding violet, why It sadly hung its head. It told me Cynthia late past by, Too soon from it that fled. --MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Compassed all about with roses sweet And dainty violets from head to feet. --EDMUND SPENSER.

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that’s gone: Violets plucked, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. --SAMUEL FLETCHER.

On beds of violets blue And fresh-blown roses washed in dew. --JOHN MILTON.

Over the river there lieth A city wondrous fair, And never the eye of a mortal Hath looked on the glories there. The lilies grow by the rivers, Stately and fair they blow, And lift their balm to the angels, In their censer-cup of snow; And the violets blossom forever In the haunts where the wild birds sing, And the fern and the flowers are fragrant In the balm of eternal spring. --EBEN E. REXFORD.