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C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Violets

The violet is a nun.

Hood.

Violets spring in the soft May shower.

Bryant.

  • Banks that slope to the southern sky
  • Where languid violets love to lie.
  • Sarah Helen Whitman.

  • And from his ashes may be made
  • The violet of his native land.
  • Tennyson.

  • The violet thinks, with her timid blue eye,
  • To pass for a blossom enchantingly shy.
  • Francis S. Osgood.

  • Surely as cometh the Winter, I know
  • There are Spring violets under the snow.
  • R. H. Newell.

  • Here oft we sought the violet, as it lay
  • Buried in beds of moss and lichens gray.
  • Sarah Helen Whitman.

  • Steals timidly away,
  • Shrinking as violets do in summer’s ray.
  • Moore.

  • And shade the violets,
  • That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
  • Keats.

  • The country ever has a lagging Spring,
  • Waiting for May to call its violets forth.
  • Bryant.

  • Early violets blue and white
  • Dying for their love of light.
  • Edwin Arnold.

  • Yet there upon that upland height
  • The darlings of the early spring
  • Blue violets—were blossoming.
  • Julia C. R. Dorr.

  • Again the violet of our early days
  • Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,
  • And kindles into fragrance at his blaze.
  • Ebenezer Elliott.

  • The sweet sound,
  • That breathes upon a bank of violets,
  • Stealing and giving odor!
  • Shakespeare.

  • Violets dim,
  • But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,
  • Or Cytherea’s breath.
  • Shakespeare.

  • A violet by a mossy stone
  • Half hidden from the eye!
  • Fair as a star when only one
  • Is shining in the sky.
  • Wordsworth.

  • In kindly showers and sunshine bud
  • The branches of the dull gray wood;
  • Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks
  • The blue eye of the violet looks.
  • Whittier.

  • The smell of violets, hidden in the green,
  • Pour’d back into my empty soul and frame
  • The times when I remembered to have been
  • Joyful and free from blame.
  • Tennyson.

  • The tender violet bent in smiles
  • To elves that sported nigh,
  • Tossing the drops of fragrant dew
  • To scent the evening sky.
  • Elizabeth Oakes Smith.

  • And the violet lay dead while the odor flew
  • On the wings or the wind o’er the waters blue.
  • Shelley.

  • Hath the pearl less whiteness
  • Because of its birth?
  • Hath the violet less brightness
  • For growing near earth?
  • Moore.

  • And in my breast
  • Spring wakens too; and my regret
  • Becomes an April violet,
  • And buds and blossoms like the rest.
  • Tennyson.

  • The modest, lowly violet
  • In leaves of tender green is set;
  • So rich she cannot hide from view,
  • But covers all the bank with blue.
  • Dora Read Goodale.

  • We are violets blue,
  • For our sweetness found
  • Careless in the mossy shades,
  • Looking on the ground.
  • Love’s dropp’d eyelids and a kiss,—
  • Such our breath and blueness is.
  • Leigh Hunt.

  • A blossom of returning light,
  • An April flower of sun and dew;
  • The earth and sky, the day and night
  • Are melted in her depth of blue!
  • Dora Read Goodale.

  • Cold blows the wind against the hill,
  • And cold upon the plain;
  • I sit me by the bank, until
  • The violets come again.
  • Richard Garnett.

  • When beechen buds begin to swell,
  • And woods the blue-bird’s warble know,
  • The yellow violet’s modest bell
  • Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.
  • Bryant.

  • The violets were past their prime,
  • Yet their departing breath
  • Was sweeter, in the blast of death,
  • Than all the lavish fragrance of the time.
  • Montgomery.

  • What thought is folded in thy leaves!
  • What tender thought, what speechless pain!
  • I hold thy faded lips to mine,
  • Thou darling of the April rain.
  • T. B. Aldrich.

  • Violets!—deep-blue violets!
  • April’s loveliest coronets!
  • There are no flowers grow in the vale,
  • Kiss’d by the dew, woo’d by the gale,—
  • None by the dew of the twilight wet,
  • So sweet as the deep-blue violet.
  • L. E. Landon.

  • Violet! sweet violet!
  • Thine eyes are full of tears;
  • Are they wet
  • Even yet
  • With the thought of other years?
  • Lowell.

  • A humble flower long time I pined
  • Upon the solitary plain,
  • And trembled at the angry wind,
  • And shrunk before the bitter rain.
  • And oh! ’twas in a blessed hour
  • A passing wanderer chanced to see,
  • And, pitying the lonely flower,
  • To stoop and gather me.
  • Thackeray.