CHAPTER FIVE

Up from the sweet South comes the lingering May, Sets the first wind-flower trembling on its stem; Scatters her violets with lavish hands, White, blue and amber. --CELIA THAXTER.

The vales shall laugh in flowers, the woods Grow misty-green with leafing buds, And violets and wind-flowers sway Against the throbbing heart of May. --JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

When springtime comes, Primrose and violet haunt the mossy bank. --HENRY G. HEWLETT.

Rosy and white on the wanton breeze The petals fall from the apple-trees, And under the hedge where the shade lies wet Are children, picking the violet. --F. W. BOURDILLON.

The same sweet sounds are in my ear My early childhood loved to hear. The violet there, in soft May dew, Comes up, as modest and as true. --WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Farewell to thee, France! but when Liberty rallies Once more in thy regions, remember me then-- The violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys, Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again. --LORD BYRON.

Where the rose doth wear her blushes Like a garment, and the fair And modest violets sit together, Weaving, in mild May weather, Purples out of dew and air Fit for any queen to wear. --ALICE CARY.

Hear the rain whisper, “Dear violet, come!” --LUCY LARCOM.

On every sunny hillock spread, The pale primrose lifts her head; Rich with sweets, the western gale Sweeps along the cowslip’d dale; Every bank, with violets gay, Smiles to welcome in the May. --ROBERT SOUTHEY.

The air was soft and fresh and sweet; The slopes in spring’s new verdure lay, And wet with dew-drops at my feet Bloomed the young violets of May. --JOHN HOWARD BRYANT.

In each hedgerow spring must hasten Cowslips sweet to set; And under every leaf, in shadow Hide a violet. --ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

The buds of April had burst into bloom on the willow and maple, Fresh with dew was the sod, with dim blue violets sprinkled. --D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.

The dream of winter broken, Behold her, blue and dear, Shy Violet, sure token That April’s here! --FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

Not the first violet on a woodland lea Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she. --JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

No more shall meads be decked with flowers, Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers, Nor greenest buds on branches spring, Nor warbling birds delight to sing, Nor April violets paint the grove, If I forsake my Celia’s love. --THOMAS CAREW.

And O, and O, The daisies blow, And the primroses are wakened; And the violets white Sit in silver light, And the green buds are long in the spike end. --OLD ENGLISH SONG.

A violet that nestles cheek to the mellowed ground; The humming of a happy brook about its daily round; The woody breath of pines; the smell of loosening sods; Such simple links of being,--such common things of God’s. --ELLA M. BAKER.

Merry, ever-merry May! Made of sunbeams, shade and showers, Bursting buds and breathing flowers! Dripping locked and rosy-vested, Violet slippered, rainbow crested. --WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

There were banks of purple violet, And arbutus, first whisper of the May. --FRANCES L. MACE.

Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red, From thee the violet steals its breath in May. --JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet’s breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Beauty through my senses stole,-- I yielded myself to the perfect whole. --RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Now the tender, sweet arbutus Trails her blossom-clustered vines, And the many-figured cinquefoil In the shady hollow twines; Here, behind this crumbled tree-trunk, With the cooling showers wet, Fresh and upright, blooms the sunny Golden-yellow violet. --DORA READ GOODALE.

Saintly violets, plucked in bosky dell. --CLINTON SCOLLARD.

Thy feasting tables shall be hills With daisies spread, and daffadils; Where thou shalt sit, and red-brest by, For meat, shall give thee melody. Ile give thee chaines and carkanets Of primroses and violets. --ROBERT HERRICK.

With saucy gesture Primroses flare, And roguish violets Hidden with care. And whatsoever There stirs and strives, The spring’s contented, It works and thrives. --JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

White violets, pure violets, That might be wreathed in coronets For baby brows of spotless mould, That no earth shadows overfold; White winsome things with dovelike wings That brood in grassy nest, As thick as stars no tempest mars With presence of unrest. --EMILY S. OAKEY.

Look forth, Beloved, through the tender air, And let thine eyes The violets be. --BAYARD TAYLOR.

The violets whisper from the shade Which their own leaves have made: “Men scent our fragrance on the air, Yet take no heed Of humble lessons we would read.” --CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

The gentle drift Of odorous distillings in the air, Daffodils growing on the field’s green breast, Buds all a-blow, and the enchanted breath Of violets peeping in the damp hedgerow, Kindled to being. --CHRISTINA CATHERINE LIDDELL.

That young May violet to me is dear, And I visit the silent streamlet near, To look on the lovely flower. --WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

The larch has donned its rosy plumes, And hastes its emerald beads to string: The warblers now are on the wing, Across the pathless ocean glooms. Through tender grass and violet blooms I move along and gaily sing. --RICHARD WILTON.

Violets stir and arbutus wakes, Claytonia’s rosy bells unfold; Dandelion through the meadow makes A royal road, with seals of gold. --HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

Dear little violet, Don’t be afraid! Lift your blue eyes From the rock’s mossy shade!

All the birds call for you Out of the sky: May is here, waiting, And so, too, am I.

Come, pretty violet, Winter’s away: Come, for without you May isn’t May.

Now all is beautiful Under the sky. May’s here--and violets! Winter, good-bye! --LUCY LARCOM.

Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace, Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first, The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue. --JAMES THOMSON.

While May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream. --HENRY VAN DYKE.

The country ever has a lagging spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses. --WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

And in the meadows soft, on either hand, Blossomed white parsley and the violet. --HOMER.

Welcome, maids of honor, You do bring In the Spring, And wait upon her.

She has virgins many Fresh and fair, Yet you are More sweet than any.

Ye are the maiden posies And so graced To be placed ’Fore damask roses. --ROBERT HERRICK.

Tute le barche parte via sta note, E quela del mio ben doman de note; Tute le barche cargarà de tole, E quela del mio ben de rose e viole. --VENETIAN SONG.