I see Thee in the distant blue, But in the violet’s dell of dew, Behold, I breathe and touch Thee, too. --JOHN B. TABB.
Spring sat dejected in a sheltered nook And sighed because of the long-lingering snow, And prayed that warm, life-giving winds might blow; When at her feet there grew, with trembling look, A violet that whispered: “I forsook My cell to comfort thee and still thy woe.” Then, filled with hope, Spring said: “I now shall go And greet each hill and vale and winding brook.” Where’er she went, earth blessed her with its flowers: Arbutus, columbines, anemones, And sunny marigolds that deck the wet Lowlands. But in the soothing moonlit hours, When dreaming ’neath the blossom-laden trees, She holds with loving hands the violet. --JOHN LUTHER BRENIZER.
Ein kleines blau Veilchen Stand eben erst ein Weilchen Unten im Thal am Bach; Da dacht’ es einmal nach Und sprach: “Dass ich hier unten blüh’ Lohnt sich kaum der Müh’; Muss mich überall bücken Und drücken. Ei,” spricht’ es, “hier ist’s schön, Aber alles kann man doch nicht sehen; So ein Berg Ist doch nur ein Schwerz; Auf der Alp da droben, Das wär, eher zu loben: Da möcht’ ich wohl sein, Da gückt’ ich bis in Himmel hinein.” --FRIEDRICH FÖRSTER.
O violet, blue-eyed violet, Scented with sweetest breath! --CAROLINE A. SOULE.
Up from the sweet South comes the lingering May, Sets the first wind-flower trembling on its stem; Scatters her violets with lavish hands, White, blue and amber. --CELIA THAXTER.
The vales shall laugh in flowers, the woods Grow misty-green with leafing buds, And violets and wind-flowers sway Against the throbbing heart of May. --JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
When springtime comes, Primrose and violet haunt the mossy bank. --HENRY G. HEWLETT.
Rosy and white on the wanton breeze The petals fall from the apple-trees, And under the hedge where the shade lies wet Are children, picking the violet. --F. W. BOURDILLON.
The same sweet sounds are in my ear My early childhood loved to hear. The violet there, in soft May dew, Comes up, as modest and as true. --WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Farewell to thee, France! but when Liberty rallies Once more in thy regions, remember me then-- The violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys, Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again. --LORD BYRON.