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 t

CHAPTER EIGHT

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