Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god’s lair · · · · · · To sink o’erdrowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blew Around my head and feet silently there, Till spring’s glad choir adown the valley pealed And violets trembled in the morning dew. --EDWARD DOWDEN.
The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill, The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill, The breaths that noon exhales are faint and chill.
Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew, Where to spring winds their soft eyes open flew; Safely they sleep the churlish winter through.
Though all life’s portals are indiced with woe, And frozen pearls are all the world can show, Feel! Nature’s breath is warm beneath the snow! --ANONYMOUS.
You’ll look at least on love’s remains, A grave’s one violet? Your look?--that pays a thousand pains. What’s death? You’ll love me yet! --ROBERT BROWNING.
Out of every shadowy nook Spirit faces seem to look, Some with smiling eyes, and some With a sad entreaty dumb; He who shepherded his sheep On the wild Sicilian steep, He above whose grave are set Sprays of Roman violet; Poets, sages,--all who wrought In the crucible of thought. --CLINTON SCOLLARD.
A fair little girl sat under a tree Sewing as long as her eyes could see; Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, “Dear work, good night, good night!”
The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; The violets curtsied and went to bed; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. --RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep; I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets grow. --WILLIAM SHENSTONE.
Where the fern in gladness dances On the banks of dimpled burns, Where the streamlet’s bright wave glances When the spring returns; White as winter’s spotless drift There our faces we uplift. Still we see the stars above us, Still we trust, because they love us-- Are they flowers in the sky, Violets that have learned to fly? We believe, and hope, and trust, Know that He who made is just, And He never will forsake us While we’re white and pure of heart. Sister, maiden Sister, take us-- One of us thou art! --WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.