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