Part 16 (1/2)

Softly stole the wind away, Tenderly he murmured, ”Stay!”

To a late thrush on the wing, ”Stay with her one day and sing!”

Sang the thrush so sweet and clear That the sun came out to hear, And, in answer to her song, Beamed on violet all day long.

--OLIVER HERFORD.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Violet, little violet, Brave and true and sweet thou art.

--ANONYMOUS.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

”All nature mourns,” I said; ”November wild Hath torn the fairest pages from her book.”

But suddenly a wild bird overhead Poured forth a strain so strangely clear and sweet, It seemed to bring me back the skies of May, And wake the sleeping violets at my feet.

Then long I pondered o'er the poet's words, ”The loss of beauty is not always loss,”

Till like the voice of love they soothed my pain, And gave me strength to bear again my cross.

--ALBERT LAIGHTON.

The violet's gone, The first-born child of the early sun; With us she is but a winter's flower, The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.

--LORD BYRON.

I picked thee violets Upon a morn when the white mist Went trailing down the leas and made A gauzy scarf to twine and twist About the feet of the blue hills.

--MARY F. FAXON.

Between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s that never yet felt trouble A bunch of violets full-blown and double Serenely sleep.

--JOHN KEATS.

Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy aery sh.e.l.l, By slow Meander's argent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.

--JOHN MILTON.

Even the tiny violet can make Her little circle sweet as love.

--GRACE GREENWOOD.

And Helen breathed the scent of violets, blown Along the bosky sh.o.r.es.

--BAYARD TAYLOR.