Part 7 (1/2)

In each hedgerow spring must hasten Cowslips sweet to set; And under every leaf, in shadow Hide a violet.

--ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

The buds of April had burst into bloom on the willow and maple, Fresh with dew was the sod, with dim blue violets sprinkled.

--D. CHAUNCEY BREWER.

The dream of winter broken, Behold her, blue and dear, Shy Violet, sure token That April's here!

--FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

Not the first violet on a woodland lea Seemed a more visible gift of Spring than she.

--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

No more shall meads be decked with flowers, Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers, Nor greenest buds on branches spring, Nor warbling birds delight to sing, Nor April violets paint the grove, If I forsake my Celia's love.

--THOMAS CAREW.

And O, and O, The daisies blow, And the primroses are wakened; And the violets white Sit in silver light, And the green buds are long in the spike end.

--OLD ENGLISH SONG.

A violet that nestles cheek to the mellowed ground; The humming of a happy brook about its daily round; The woody breath of pines; the smell of loosening sods; Such simple links of being,--such common things of G.o.d's.

--ELLA M. BAKER.

Merry, ever-merry May!

Made of sunbeams, shade and showers, Bursting buds and breathing flowers!

Dripping locked and rosy-vested, Violet slippered, rainbow crested.

--WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

There were banks of purple violet, And arbutus, first whisper of the May.

--FRANCES L. MACE.

Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red, From thee the violet steals its breath in May.

--JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Beauty through my senses stole,-- I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Now the tender, sweet arbutus Trails her blossom-cl.u.s.tered vines, And the many-figured cinquefoil In the shady hollow twines; Here, behind this crumbled tree-trunk, With the cooling showers wet, Fresh and upright, blooms the sunny Golden-yellow violet.

--DORA READ GOODALE.

Saintly violets, plucked in bosky dell.