Part 18 (1/2)

Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath.

--WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

Could you not come when woods are green?

Could you not come when lambs are seen?

When the primrose laughs from its child-like sleep, And the violets hide and the bluebells peep?

--ALFRED AUSTIN.

Thy face is like the violet's That to the red rose lingers close, And he who looks at thee forgets The honeyed sweetness of the rose.

--JOEL BENTON.

He gave her the wildwood roses And violets for her wreath, And a whisper at last of sweet response Stole on her perfumed breath.

--FRANCES L. MACE.

Come not, O sweet days, Out of yon cloudless blue, Ghosts of so many dear remembered Mays, With faces like dead lovers, who died true.

Come not, lest we go seek with eyes all wet, Primrose and violet, Forgetting that they lie Deep in the mould till winter has gone by.

--DINAH MARIA MULOCH CRAIK.

Blighting and blowing--blighting and blowing-- And the stones of the rivulet silent lie, And the winds in the fading woodlands cry, And the birds in the clouds are going; And the dandelion hides his gold, And their little blue tents the violets fold, And the air is gray with snowing: So life keeps coming and going.

--ALICE CARY.

Dear chance it were in some rough wood-G.o.d'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.