  The violet, she is faint with heat— The lily is all forlorn; My love, arise, with thy dewy eyes, Arise, and be their morn! —ALICE CARY. Grow greener, grass, where the river flows— Her feet have pressed you; Blow fresher, violet! lily! rose! Her eyes have blessed you. —CHARLES MACKAY. Violets make the airs that pass Telltales of their fragrant slope. —BAYARD TAYLOR. Sich a rainy season A-comin’ by-an’-by; But Sun will play de hide-an’-seek Yander in the sky. Lily’ll look so lonesome— Violet hide his eye; But de skies will do yo’ weepin’, So, honey, don’t you cry! W’en der rain is over, Violet dress in blue; Red rose say: “I sweet terday— An’ here’s a kiss fer you!” —FRANK L. STANTON. Shadows, like the violets tangled, Like the soft light, softly mingled. —ALICE CARY. When violets pranked the turf with blue, And morning filled their cups with dew. —OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Came one by one the seasons, meetly drest. ······ First Spring—upon whose head a wreath was set Of wind-flowers and the yellow violet— Advanced. Then Summer led his loveliest Of months, one ever to the minstrel dear (Her sweet eyes dewy wet), June, and her sisters, whose brown hands entwine The brier-rose and the bee-haunted columbine. —EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. Oh, not more sweet the tears Of the dewy eve on the violet shed, Than the dews of age on the hoary head When it enters the eve of years. —ANONYMOUS. ’Twas violet time when he and she Went roaming the meadows wide and free. A happy lad and lass were they, Their hearts, their hopes, their voices gay,— She seventeen, he twenty-three. The skies were calm as a sleeping sea, And the hills and streams and the mossy lea A part of the wooing seemed to be; ’Twas violet time. Years fled, and weak and old grew he; His form was bent like a snow-bowed tree, His hair was white and hers was gray, But their souls were young as a morn in May, And in their souls—sweet mystery!— ’Twas violet time! —ERNEST WARBURTON SHURTLEFF. A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye— Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky, She lived. —WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. O playmate in the golden time! Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet; The old trees o’er it lean. —JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. The brown pine-needles at our feet Spread forth until the green is met, To mingle all their perfume sweet With trillium and with violet. —WILLIAM McLELLAN. Ungarlanded still stand the fair White ladyes of the wood; Yet, purple-robed, the violet Peeps from her gray-green hood. —ANONYMOUS. Passing along through the field of wheat By the hedge where in spring the violets glow, And the bluebells blossom around our feet. —CHARLES SAYLE. Lady violet, blooming meekly By the brooklet free, Bending low thy gentle forehead All his grace to see; Turn thee from the wooing water— Whisper soft, I pray, For the wind might hear my secret— Does he love me? Say! —N. C. KETCHUM. Violets in the hazel copse, Bluebells in the dingle; Birds in all the green tree-tops Joyous songs commingle. —MARY C. GILLINGTON. In her face a garden lies: Violets are her azure eyes; Just below them there repose Blushing cheeks of velvet rose; ’Twixt the roses, scorning drouth, Tulips of her tempting mouth. In this garden alley may Only one, the chosen, stray. Reveling in their radiant hues, Tasting of their precious dews, Rich delights he ne’er forgets— Tulips, roses, violets. —GEORGE BIRDSEYE. From over-sea, Violets, for memories, I send to thee. —WILLIAM SHARP. For thoughts of a sylvan home, For forest trees gemmed with dew, For sake of the Giver kind, Violets, I love you. —GRACE HIBBARD. I sometimes dream that when at last CHAPTER NINE Modest violet, maiden violet, Pray, can I borrow your blue eyes? —ALICE CARY.
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