Blow, violets, blow! And tell him, in your blossoming o’er and o’er, How in the places which he used to know His name is still breathed fondly as of yore. --ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
See hyacinths and violets dim and sweet, And orange-blossoms on their dark green stems. --WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
The snow-drop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odors, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. --PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
When love in the faint heart trembles, And the eyes with tears are wet, O, tell me what resembles Thee, young Regret? Violets with dewdrops drooping, Lilies o’erfull of gold, Roses in June rains stooping, That weep for the cold, Are like thee, young Regret. --GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.
Over the hilltop and down in the meadow-grass Heaven, like dew, on the waking earth lies; Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets-- Best of it all I find in your eyes. --WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
Far back where the April violets grew There smiled, amid crystals of deathless dew, Our first and last Arcadia.
In clear, unbroken melody The brook sings and the birds reply: “The violets--the violets!” --FRANCES L. MACE.
No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again. --CHARLOTTE SMITH.
When October dons her crown, And the leaves are turning brown,-- Breathe, sweet children, soft regrets For the vanished violets. --ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
Primrose and cowslip have I gathered here, Anemone and hiding violet, When April sang the spring song of the year. Now all is changed; the autumn day is wet With clouds blown from the west, and vapors fold Over the dripping woods and vacant wold. --CHARLES DENYS CONWAY.
She gave me a flower that she wore in her bosom, And violets, not half so blue as her eyes. --EMILY S. OAKEY.
Poor little Violet, calling through the chill Of this new frost which did her sister slay, In which she must herself, too, pass away! Nay, pretty Violet, be not so dismayed; Sleep only on your sisters sweet is laid. --PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
As I was gathering violets in the snow, Methought how often, when the heart is low, And Nature grieves, The buds of simple faith will meekly blow ’Neath frosted leaves. --A. E. HAMILTON.